The World's Stage
by OoCupOfNoodleoO
Summary: To make it to the top, competition was necessary. The 'ALLIES' learn that the hard way, trudging to their ultimate goal; Stardom. The stakes are high, and the risks of losing more than just the red carpet are even higher. After all, hidden underneath each and every perfected smile are secrets that will cost them much more then just spotlight.
1. An Opportunity- Chapter One

The World's Stage

 **An opportunity**

Chapter One:

Competition made life interesting. However, it was only enjoyable when you were the one with the winning hand and right now, the 'ALLIES' weren't. In fact, the 'ALLIES' packed a mediocre score with there new album "World". 2nd place on the billboard, right in between winning, and losing. Thus making it mediocre.

Yao Wang was the first to wake up, being the oldest amongst his comrades he was given the gift of being the early bird. After all, he needed to get the worm first, no? He woke up with the mild feeling of dissatisfaction in his aching bones, the reason being because he stayed up all night hopefully wishing that 'ALLIES' would move up a spot. However, he was severely disappointed when they didn't, and as a result spent his night brooding over a mediocre accomplishment.

He slowly trudged out of his room, walking along the short hallway to the kitchen, he could hear the rhythmic breathing of Arthur and Ivan. Both of them members of the ALLIES. Equally important, and equally talented. He remembers how long it took to record their new single 'World', and how much heart came along with it. Obviously not enough heart to gain first place. As one of the lead singers in 'ALLIES' it deeply wounded him to see his idol group fall to a spot under first place.

He barely reaches the kitchen when Arthur comes strutting out of his room, scowl and frown gracing his finely cut features. Yao quickly starts walking over to the stove, guarding the pots and pans that were exposed to Arthur's usage.

"早上好*- aru" Yao let a few Chinese characters slip as a warning that even he wasn't in the best of moods. Arthur takes the hint and musters a tired but smug smile, Yao taking it with a firm nod.

"Good morning, Yao." Arthur speaks, accent and all. Yao cracks one of his own smug grins, and offers an empty mug to the British. Opening the cupboards of there duplex apartment, Yao busies himself by searching for the British's and his favorite tea.

Arthur waits fervently, taking in the scent of Oolong and dry tea leaves. He's upset himself and he watches Yao carelessly drop some tea leaves onto the tiled floor. Obviously he's not the only person who's upset. His thoughts are interrupted when the heavy footsteps of their tallest member walks in. Long scarf trailing behind him, protecting him of an imaginary cold.

"Yao Yao!~" the Russian skips sleepily to his favorite 'ALLIES' member. Attaching himself to his side and instinctively picking up the fallen tea leaves on the ground. Scooping them into his pale fingers before crumpling them together in his fist. Yao and Arthur both watch him cautiously, he's upset to.

As the tea leaves finally start to set into the boiling water, soaking them of their flavour, Yao and Ivan take the spot beside Arthur who now sits on a metallic high chair leaning against the black marble counters. One remaining chair sits beside the Russian, reserved for there last remaining 'ALLIES' member.

"He's up isn't he?" Ivan questions, and Yao shakes his head sighing in discomfort. Arthur grunts before solemnly nodding. "Yeah, the bloody git's been brooding since last night. He's mopping in bed right now."

Ivan shakes his head, muttering a string of curses about how Alfred's being a wimp, all of which Arthur and Yao can't deny. After all, they all sucked it up.

"Now, who's calling me a wimp? I'm a HERO!" Alfred walks in with a disarming smile and slightly red eyes. He's been crying and everyone knows it. He sits down beside Ivan, furthest from the emerald eyes that pierce him. He looks a lot less like a hero, and more like a bullied victim. Although no one dares stat that fact.

"Come now, the tea's ready- aru" Yao stands up and quietly walks into the kitchen. He nimbly pours steaming Oolong tea into mugs of various colors. Handing them to everyone except Arthur who already has a mug prepared. As he slides the last cup to Alfred, he smiles. Mustering his most encouraging and heartwarming grin because encouragement is the least of what Alfred needs right now.

An eerily quiet silence falls on the quartet of men. Each of them sipping their tea like scared mice in hiding. It's no secret that everyone would rather be in their rooms and not come out.

Finally, Alfred speaks out. His voice meek and unsettling. "Arthur. Turn on the TV"

Arthur turns to him before shaking his head, "I don't think you want to know what's o-" Arthur doesn't have time to finish his sentence before Ivan speed walks to the flat screen TV. The remote sitting on the white leather couches. "What channel, Alfred?" he doesn't get an answer so he shrugs and settles with the first News channel he gets. Pushing in rubber buttons with the soft tips of his fingers.

"This will do, Da?" Everyone nods nonchalantly and almost instantly their faces pop up on the big screen. A picture of a rivaling band beside there's. Everyone freezes in disdain and Yao barely suppresses a muffled yelp.

" _It's no secret that there's a certain animosity between the 'ALLIES' idol group, and the 'AXIS'"_ a news woman with green eyes stare back at the four.

" _However, it seems that no matter what the 'ALLIES' do, the 'AXIS' shall always surpass them by a huge margin. There is no comparing, the sales and rates are out. 'AXIS' has won by a huge amount again."_

All four of them groan in displeasure. It seems that it's been all the talk now, and if anything it's only adding salt to an already burning wound. Yao finish's his Oolong tea, barely withstanding the murderous aura that all of his comrades are holding. He slams his cup on the counter, the sound of china and marble makes everyone flinch.

"Aiya! I'm tired of this mopping attitude right now! Alright, we may have lost again.." He pauses, choosing his next words very carefully. "But we always have more opportunities to beat them." He know he misses the 'aru' in the heat of the moment, and he sits back down before rubbing his temples. Someone had to whack sense into them. It was better him, then Ivan or Arthur.

Once again, a deadly silence surrounds them and Ivan occasionally glances at the Oriental beauty. Hoping for him to whack more sense into them. They all settle in an uncomfortable silence, all of them staring at the cups in their hands. Empty or not, it certainly seemed better to look at than each other's eyes.

It takes forever, but finally both Arthur and Alfred let out a loud sigh. Their pride and egos going with the Oolong scented air that comes out of their lungs.

"You're right, Yao...Thank's dude...I don't even know what got over me. Man, I felt like a completely different person." Yao nods in satisfaction and Ivan cracks his own innocent smile. Relief seems to lighten the mood, and Yao and Ivan spare a glance.

Alfred continues, "I just don't know. Like, what do we lack that they have? Our faces? Skill? Maybe it's just pure luck!" Arthur nods in agreement, staring into his half-finished cup of tea. Emerald eyes deep in complicated thoughts no one dares to ask.

Ivan hums in agreement. "Da, Russians are naturally blessed with slightly worse luck." He stands up and stretches before letting his cup drop to the sink that sits beside a coffee grinder. "The Russian winter is an example." He much prefers the bitter taste of coffee, but anything Yao is willing to drink, is anything he would to.

"I think Yao is right. We do have many chances to prove ourselves worthy." Arthur speaks, his British accent has a calming effect on all of them. Making the morning tea seem to have reversed effects. The British catches the Americans eye, and he smiles a crooked grin. "So don't worry."

Almost as soon as Arthur says that, a suddenly hypnotic tune starts playing from the TV. In the short moments of peace they all forgot that the TV was still spouting negative and discouraging comments. But what catches their eyes is Kiku Honda, a member of the 'AXIS' along with Ludwig Beilschmidt, and Feliciano Vargas staring at the camera.

" _So, what do you think about your win against your biggest rivals, the 'ALLIES'"_ the same news woman says cheerfully. She doesn't spare any sympathy for the quartet, and the members of the 'ALLIES' already know what team she's on.

Kiku speaks first. Slowly and flauntingly. His voice reaches everyone's ears, and all of their moods dampen drastically. _"Well, we can't call them rivals if we keep on beating them no?"_ The Italian adds on, his eyes lidded in an ecstatic smile. _"Ve!~ They are no problem for us AXIS!~"_

Alfred tenses, before taking off his glasses and rubbing them of dirt and dust, hopefully wishing that by the time he puts them back on the 'AXIS' trio will be gone. Disappearing to second place where he wished they were at instead of themselves.

The German beside Feliciano smiles proudly. _"Yes, so we have signed up for a bigger more vast international competition. Hopefully, we will find more...well matched rivals."_

This piece of information catches everyone's attention, and Yao can't help but let his competitive nature start to rise. Adrenaline and redemption already flowing in his blood. After all, atonement was his color. Red.

With the last piece of information, the 'AXIS' leave the screen and the Belgian news woman winks at the camera. Not afraid of showing the physical charm she bears within her golden brown locks.

" _That's right! They're signing up for the international 'The Beautiful World' competition that allows any competent band with up to three members to participate!"_

The rest of her words, are gibberish based on biased opinions and useless weather precautions. The four of them take some time to digest all this information. By now everyone has vaguely the same idea; redemption, atonement, victory, a final chance. Their eyes meet, gold to violet, green to blue. Pleasant smiles and smirks gently graze their features.

A wonderful opportunity has appeared.

 **Please review! I will update very soon, most likely in a week's time! I would love to have a review or two to know what you think! This is a really unpopular AU. The Idol!AU!**

 **Remember your reviews are my strength to continue!~**


	2. The American Plan- Chapter Two

The World's Stage

The American Plan

Chapter Two:

It was a mission for Yao to learn something new every day. Learning was his strength, and it was the very reason behind his knowledge and his witty gut. In the entertainment business, you had to know the rules and how to break them. You had to know how to stretch them to the point where there are no longer distinct sides. Good and bad forever lost in the middle that stretches far too wide.

That's why there were liars. People spoiled rotten by spotlight and fame, changed and modified until they speak nothing but lies. A Morse code only the liars would know.

Therefore, if you wanted to tell between a liar and a good pupil, you had to have eyes of a liar first. That's the way it was, and that's the way it goes. Today, Yao learnt something new.

 _The Belgian reporter was a liar._

"I can't believe we have to audition! - aru" The Eastern man says. He wipes a bead of sweat from his pale forehead, the beginning of his worries starting to form. After all, he was the person who carried out plans. The calculative and binary mastermind behind the dust filled spotlight. He was the planner. The game changer. The executioner.

Ivan nods in agreement, humming a lazy tune that sounds a lot like a nursery rhyme. It's like he's already testing out his voice, making sure that it's in pitch perfect condition for any occasion.

"Da, very unfortunate indeed", everyone flinches when he hits a sour note. It sounds harsh and way to sharp for it to be considered in tune. He would have to work on that.

Arthur scoffs ego and pride in his throat. "What's the matter with a little competition?" He hums a rather similar nursery rhyme as Ivan, hitting the high note successfully and the low octaves smoothly. His hands move in a snapping gesture, and he stands on his toes as if it helped him hit the soprano. Instantaneously, he feels the icy glare coming from the Northern settler. It rivals the brutal Russian winters, snow, ice and all.

However, almost as soon as the momentarily winter comes, it ends like spring. Quaint, quiet, and way too quick to be presumed as normal. The British man turns around cautiously before genuinely wishing he never saw anything. After all, sometimes seeing nothing was better than knowing too much.

It was longing replaced in the Russian's eyes. His eyes giving his full attention to the Asian man who seemed to be disputing with Alfred. His violet eyes were filled with an innocent craving for the simplest of things. _Love_. Maybe the warm weather was starting to rub off on him.

Arthur looks down, Ivan was losing it. Losing his control- his grip, on what was right and wrong. They didn't have normal lives, their relations with others was based on what they needed, not wanted. They all needed each other in a professional manner, as a group, as a job, as a _living_. The four devoted their lives to the stage, their privacy was no longer theirs, but the fame was. But now, Ivan needed Yao in a whole new manner, and in his opinion it was even more confusing. Even more warped, and even more foolish.

"Guy's, there's a problem…" a wary American says. Everyone snaps out of their thoughts as Alfred speaks. His voice being the highest of the group, makes Arthur flinch. "It says we need to perform a song that's completely original". He uses his index finger and jabs it at a semi-transparent line under the date of the auditions.

Everyone inhales. Originality was hard, because nowadays most compositions sounded alike. Same tune, same beat except the lyrics were different. But even now, lyrical songs all had the same message. Inappropriate behaviour, drugs, and simply put, bad choices.

The American swallows hard, a certain dread replacing the blood in his veins. Would that mean that they had to write their own composition and choreograph their own dance? The feeling of being a leader makes a sudden wave of adrenaline pump the dread out of him. All of a sudden, he didn't really mind the extra hours of sweat and routine. After all, even if they were singers with their own talents, they weren't allowed to choreograph to their own merit. He felt like an exotic bird caged in a diamond encrusted cage. Beautiful but unbreakable all the same.

"So, we bloody have to write our own lyrics, and dance our own dance?" Arthur questions, and Ivan nods. "Da, that's the only originality I can think of. Unless you have something else?" The Russian's eyes mockingly lead their way to emerald. After their eyes meet, it's a game of who's more superior. Amethyst or Emerald? Arthur swallows hard before looking away, flushing in embarrassment, before muttering hard accented curses.

"Have you lost your mind Ivan? We don't even know how to write lyrics!- aru" Yao says, the voice of reason in this conflict. Ivan doesn't flinch at Yao's denial to his first agreement with the American. He was feeling bitter, and as a Russian, filling bitter was often led to feeling cold. He hated the feeling. More so, he hated the cold.

"What do you mean Yao, bro?" Alfred speaks up, and Arthur turns to him. "I saw your room; you do like...poetry man. About a person that you don't exactly name, black hair, short?" Yao flushes as Alfred picks at his own hair crouching in the process. The Asian of course, hid the fact that he indulged in sappy poetry. He loved the sad ones, the ones that end badly but have a beautiful middle.

"Aiya! You looked in my room?" At this Ivan turns his head to Alfred. His smile forced and strained. Alfred just laughs nervously before nodding. Golden strands of hair bobbing in the air, and Yao couldn't help but chuckle.

"I...I do like poetry" Yao confesses before sighing. Frustrated that after all this they still haven't solved the problem at hand. Instead, secrets of past flames flickered to light again. He blushes, embarrassed for the first time in a long while. "But poetry has nothing to do with this- aru!"

"Yao. What I'm saying is that you should be the person to write the lyrics." Alfred winks, making the older man flush for the second time that day. Ivan turns away not being able to watch. He grits his teeth and digs his nails into his palms. Tolerance and self-control. That was key to fake smiles and lies. He was feeling colder by the second.

"Then Alfred who will choreograph the dance?" Arthur asks, and he raises his thick eyebrows. He frowns when he sees the Americans lopsided grin. "The HERO will of course, I've got some smooth moves!" He salutes to the British who nods his head in contempt. Alfred was the best dancer in the group, he had a strong sense of charm and rhythm. Something everyone else lacked. Everyone in the 'ALLIES' was crucial. Everyone played a crucial part to a very planned and rehearsed performance. They all had their strengths and Alfred's just happen to be dancing.

"Then what will Arthur and I do?" Ivan questions, and he walks toward the Englishman. He didn't like feeling useless, and he glances at Yao who has a faraway look in his golden eyes. He turns back to the American.

"So? Ideas?" He smiles a genuine smile, even he had to admit that Alfred mostly had beneficial ideas. Although some were overly childish and fictional they all came with good intention. One of the only things he admired about him. Alfred in turn gives a cheeky grin, pausing dramatically for the sake of thinking of a plausible idea.

"You will be the messenger!" he pauses. "The person who carries small hints to our fans, and hopefully draw more people in. Release the news; tell them how hard we are working. Keep them posted and hanging!" Alfred nods, taking in his idea as a whole. It was good, because Ivan was a fan favorite. People loved him for the innocent violet that his face had. However, girls craved him for the darkness that lay hidden underneath the innocence. He was a perfect mystery. And mystery was something amazing.

Ivan takes the idea in before nodding. He was already mentally squeezing in meet and greets in his tight schedule. He would have to meet the fans, tell them the news and leave just as suddenly as he came. He duly notes that he has to search in his closet for fancier garb.

"Then me, Alfred?" Arthur asks, and Alfred genuinely thinks. He had run out of good ideas, and he surely didn't want to give Arthur a bad one. There are a few minutes of silence before Alfred speaks up. "You should learn about our competition. We need to know what we're up against to win! Maybe even the key to destroying the 'AXIS'..." he mumbles the last part just loud enough for everyone to hear, and Yao visibly frowns.

"When's the auditions-aru?" Yao asks, and Ivan answers before Alfred dare open his mouth. "April 30th"

The Chinese man smiles appreciatively before frowning. He was already visibly agitated by the ordeal of things. There were too many things everywhere, to many plans, and to many numbers and dates he had to calculate after. Would the competition even benefit them that much? What if they lost? Wouldn't that ruin their reputation even more? His shoulders sag lower, and his fingers start to fidget with his long ponytail. It lies on his left shoulder for purposes like this. When he was worried. He wasn't as carefree as the rest of his comrades. He needed organization and months of practice, he had precisely a week.

"Yao Yao, you will do fine. Believe me, Da?" Ivan knows all of Yao's little habits. Simply being together for three years was more than enough to know the Chinese man's secrets. However, the short ink hair man remains a secret he was willing to unravel. Ivan places a tentative hand on the Asian's and is relieved when he sees Alfred doing the same to Arthur.

"Yes yes, thank you Ivan. I mean it.- aru" Golden eyes melt cold Amethyst, and Ivan turns away. Smiling contently as he can no longer feel the coldness he felt moments before. He catches the American and the British holding a stare that looks a little more intimate than professional, and he casts a snide glance at Yao. The entertainment industry sure was complicated. Sometimes Ivan would wander for hours if it was worth it. The sacrifices he made to be on TV's worldwide. Yao's smile is living proof that it was. That's what he told himself.

"So! Bloody gits!" The British is now retrieving his fine long trench coat, before cracking a small smile. "We have work no? Let's get to it!"

The three of them watch in amazement as Arthur walks to the door. Checking his pockets for keys, before leaving the compound with a final wave. The three of the remaining men stare at each other before cracking encouraged grins. A choir of smiles and chuckles vibrate the computer that now is at 5%.

Little did they know that Arthur was right outside the door, doing the exact same thing.

 **I focused more on the sacrifices that being a celebrity brings, and how it actually affects the way people view of; Love. I zoomed in more on Ivan's point of view, and used it to compare his opinion with Arthur's!**

 **Review please! I would love constructive feedback along with your opinions on the story so far!**


	3. A British First- Chapter Three

The World's Stage

 **A British Fist**

Chapter Three:

Arthur always loved the rain. He loved the mist and the mysterious aura the fog gave the England streets. He loved the bright red umbrellas and he loved how his hair naturally augmented in volume. But most of all, he loved the feeling of freedom. He loved how it reminded him of when he was just a teenager, smoking cigs and wearing ripped jeans for the sake of it. When he simply had a knack for singing, and dancing were just funny sways of his hips. When money was not his everything because dancing and singing was just a hobby. When he had fun, and when he had time.

However, it wasn't raining on the streets of Toronto, and his hair wasn't as ideal as he would want it to be. In fact, his hair stuck close to his scalp due to the waft of heat that seemed to relish in his entire being. It stuck to his skin causing an itching humidity, and the blood in his veins seemed just as hot, adrenaline pumping the life within him. For once, he felt excited. Correction, he almost felt it. Like the old feeling of rejoice and happiness was coming. Like he was in the past when he was younger and happier. God, sometimes he wished he was. Things were simpler, more relaxed, and he wasn't bound yet by words on a paper.

He didn't hate being famous, he didn't hate the constant attention, but there was something about this kind of attention that made him waver. This attention was directed to the man whom called himself Arthur Kirkland. The 2.0 version of him that was a perfect gentleman, the version of him that had smiled through TV's. The version of him who had no flaws shown to the public, the version of him that was created by his own hands. He loathed it. Absolutely despised it. His own identity became washed away by the world's standards.

However, what scared him was that he had no time to himself. No time to be grumpy, handsome, him. Soon he was constantly hiding behind this fake replica of himself, the one person he hated more than anything. He hated being fake. He hated being a fraud, and he hated how the world never bothered to see him as anything other than this made up fairytale. Most of all, he was scared of losing himself. Arthur was scared that he himself would change in an insightful manner. That thought haunted him in his wildest dreams and his worst nightmares. It was the darkness in his heart. He hated change.

Toronto was sunny. After the album release, the 'ALLIES' were obligated to return to Toronto to be alerted of the future plans from there producer, Matthew. He didn't dislike Canada, but England would forever be the place he would call home. Nothing could change his opinion on home. After all, his happiest moments were when he was on stage, getting drunk on the cheering and the neon lights, or thinking about home, and the rainy days. But now, there was no use being in Toronto because they have already made their own plans. For the very first time, they have stepped out of their diamond cages, spreading their wings that have forgotten how to fly. They were like chickens confined in a high wire fence. Getting fed before man slaughtered. The World practically ate on them as entertainment. The British man supposes that that's what made the adrenaline in his blood so powerful, so maniac for freedom.

"Damn, it's hot…" Arthur curses under his breath, and for the first time, truly Implores at his surroundings. He was the information seeker, the observer, and although Arthur was a fairly intelligent man, he had nowhere to go. The duty seemed too suddenly placed on him, and he just as suddenly ran out the door without any remnant of a plan. He was like Yao in this aspect, he needed time and complex practice to carry out equally complex tasks. He slows his pace and the heat around him never ceases to lessen. He stares at his own shadow, feeling hollow and on edge.

The 'AXIS' were here. There was no doubt about it. It's been all the rage on his social networks. Pictures of pasta with comments of feverish girls claiming that they've met the Kiku Honda, or the Ludwig Beilschmidt, even the Feliciano Vargas. The "AXIS' were in Toronto because they had one of their final concerts before announcing the commence of a journey to the top. The 'AXIS' fans were more feverish, more crazed and definitely more intimidating. Every once and awhile he would receive comments that said how the 'ALLIES' were no match for the opposing team. Arthur shivers, who knew girls could be so crazy?

"Now...where would you scum be?" Arthur doesn't bother spitting out their names. He knew they had to be somewhere in the city, wherever they were, the 'AXIS' were always close by. It was a spider and fly kind of chase, except this time the fly was smarter, and could see the invisible web the spider has weaved overnight.

He chuckles, they were going to win. He was going to make sure of it. If not, then they were going to make the 'AXIS' fall with them. It was a dominoes competition. If they were going to fall, then they were going to let everyone fall with them. He walks around cautiously almost forgetting to slip on a pair of dark shaded glasses to hopefully cover his identity. He didn't need to catch more attention, he needed to be discreet and secretive. He had an entire team relying on him, and he aimed to please.

Suddenly he hears a rather loud sound, mostly consisting of piano and static. The lyrics are in Italian and it plays from the outdoor speakers of a pub nearby. The voice is rich and velvety soft. The kind that makes women swoon and men growl in jealousy. "Vargas." Arthur mutters before shaking his head. No it couldn't be. Feliciano Vargas had a high voice, a mellow voice, soft and hollow. The kind that makes a shiver run down your spine.

"Lovino Vargas." The second brother. The brother who didn't join the 'AXIS' even with the constant pleads of his younger brother. He was independent and strong. Soaring very high on the billboards, aiming for number one for singles, and almost, almost achieving it. Lovino Vargas was a powerful mass in the entertainment industry, he was a silent king trudging forward at his own pace. It was admirable. Truly.

Arthur walks quickly past the pub. Realizing that he was receiving stares from bypassers. He was amazed that no one recognized him, and if they did, they were kind enough not to dare utter his name. The distant voice of Lovino Vargas meshes away with the loud laughter of the people within the bar. He could almost smell the alcohol that reeks from the door, and even the scent of perfume that the women wear. It's too sweet for his liking. He loved the natural scents, it meant good hygiene and he was always a person for hygiene.

"-Incompetent…"

The word strikes Arthur by surprise. The canadian streets are filled with joyful laughter and quick chatter. Everyone is happy. He hears the word again, coming from the back of an alley and the British man cautiously saunters to the front door of the pub again. The pub is the last building by the alley, and it turns into a sharp turn left. He pushes himself to the wall, he doesn't understand why this stranger's words bother him so much. The word makes him shiver in disgust. He wasn't incompetent, he was important, very important. He was crucial to the entire entertainment industry, but who exactly was he important to? Who thought he was the world, who thought he was a hero? Who thought he was more than just a prince coming from a washed away fairytale?

"So incompetent!" The voice has an accent, not a spaniards strong verbal ticks, but a very low, musky growl. Arthur inhales deeply, pushing his only disguise higher on the bridge of his nose.

"Agreed." Another smooth voice intervenes. Unlike the other, his voice is calm, deep, and smooth. Rather like Lovino's except colder, and more formal.

"Why are we talking about them? We still beat them, Ve~?" Arthur freezes. It's not a very commun verbal tick was it? He only knew one person who spoke it. Somewhere in his mind he denied the fact that he knew the person talking, he didn't want to be concerned with them. Correction, he didn't think he would be facing them so soon, he was both lacking in mental and emotional preparation. He shifts uncomfortably. He couldn't assume who these people were, after all, he wasn't the kind to assume. Assuming was bad, he has learnt that making assumptions were wrong and mostly incorrect.

"Especially Yao." The calm and low voice says, Arthur hears some form of a chuckle. He could practically hear the sneer that follows. "He's the oldest amongst them, and looks fairly feminine. Don't you agree Ludwig-Senpai?"

A short and very brief hum of agreement is all Arthur needs to know. It's the 'AXIS', already spouting nonsense about them behind there back. He wonders briefly about what the opposing team does on their spare time. Maybe they would plan their next victory, crossing out names of global competitions while smirking in satisfaction. They were horrible and rotten in their own way. The three were all blind to stardom. Arthur shakes his head, frowning. No, they weren't blind from stardom. They just loved winning.

"We don't even need to play dirty this time!" An ecstatic voice says, and Arthur is certain that it's Feliciano. The italian has an unusual voice. To high and to shrill for his liking. However like him, his smile was distant. The Italian had a smile that seemed to beam brighter then any ray the sun could produce, it warm and comforting. But that was from the view of the spectators who stood underneath the stage. Arthur knew it the first time he met Feliciano. He was as complicated as his smile told him to be.

"私は彼を憎む*..." Arthur briefly hears and he knows it's Kiku. The Japanese and the Chinese had a long history together. They were always the two who grounded their own groups together. Kiku was a mastermind, calm and collected. He wanted to dominate the stage. While Yao wanted the opposite. Yao was modest, shy even. He simply wanted to share the stage and have fun. But fun was too much to ask for now, and Arthur knew it.

The British man clenches his fist before grinding his teeth together. His leather shoes vigorously digging at a burnt out cigarette nib. He had enough of their chattering. Enough of the poisonous comments, the rude remarks. Yao was his friend. His family, and so was every other person that was in the 'ALLIES'. He wanted them to have respect. Respect like how he respected them. Arthur genuinely respected all of his comrades, and he demanded others show them respect to. His blood boils, while his heart very slowly but steadily pounds in his chest. But what can he do? He was a coward. He was a person with ideals, and ideas, but he was also afraid. Afraid that he was going to mess up. Afraid that people will see him as the Arthur Kirkland his friends saw every morning. He wanted the fans, the supporters to know the real him, but he was afraid.

And that's why he assumed. In a really really long time, he assumed he was a coward. By now, the British man's head hangs low, he stares at the burnt out ash that leaves trails on the pavement.

"Yao is the person who gets most riled up, isn't he? Wouldn't it be fun to stress him out? Hm?" Kiku speaks again, but this time Arthur's head snaps up. His lips pressed together in a permanent frown. He was feeling more than just anger. He was angry at the 'AXIS', and disappointed in himself. And he supposes that that's what made his composure fully crumble. His walls of built up perfection let loose. Turning into dust and ash as dark as the stain on his boot. So he turned. Turned the sharp left turn, and swung.

He didn't know what he was swinging at, but as long as it hit something.

He would be satisfied.

 **Alrighty! I'm almost certain this is one of the longer chapters out of the three (including this one). I'm sorry I haven't updated, I've been busy! However, I got plenty ideas coming out so hang on, and wait!**

 **Let's see what happens with Arthur, and the short mention of Lovino Vargas?**

 ***I hate him**


	4. The Asian Save- Chapter Four

The World's Stage

 **An Asian's Save, and A British's Comfort**

Chapter Four

Ivan was upset. Simply put, upset. And most of the time when he was upset it was led to the feeling of emptiness; loneliness. A deep abyss of darkness that momentarily blinds him from sanity. It was the world, him, and his fright to be alone; abandoned. He remembers the cold days in a small wooden house barely able to contain his sisters and him. He remembers how they all slowly drifted away from him, no matter what the promises they have vowed to him. They swore their lives to be together, but right now he could feel nothing but the cold harsh memory of a bittersweet farewell.

Ivan swallows back a growl before rushingly looping small black buttons into finely sewn cuts of his dark tan trench-coat. A simple, pale white shirt is underneath and Ivan narrows his eyes in displeasure. He had no fancier garb that suited his tastes, and he knew that out of his comrades he was definitely the one who had a high sense of fashion. He admired the Britain for that to. They both had similar individual styles that both intrigued the other.

Snow flashes in his eyes, and for a moment he can almost see glittering clumps of white flash in the peripheral of his vision. At the very last of his buttons, he walks to a seemingly long mirror. Deep purple stare back at his own, penetrating so hard, so carefully, so suspicious of his own existence. He didn't know why he felt that way. After all, he was a fine looking man, young and tall. With hair that seemed bleached with the snow that once permanently sat on his head. He was as cold as he looked, as frigid, and frightening he knew he could be. But no one has bothered to see past that, no one seemed to see past this exterior of ice carved features. That's what he thought in the very least, It was like that in mother Russia. A sunflower field painting by his bed seems to carry him back into the past. He remembers how people feared him, cursed him, loathed him. He remembers sunflowers stained red, the thirst for survival and recognition. He remembers it all, and he never forgets. How could he?

But in reality it was the opposite. Spotlight made him bright. Spotlight hid his flaws. Spotlight made people see him as he wished he saw himself. He smiles kindly as he gently places his hand on the mirror, covering his eyes and the forbidding look that comes with it. He loved it. And he never understood Arthur for not adoring it like he did. The spotlight was his greatest prank, his greatest fools game.

"Da, now what scarf should I wear today?" Ivan pushes the long piece of glass aside, it reveals silk, velvets, and satin. He indulges himself into his personal collection of seasonal clothes. All out of season, and he grimaces in distaste. The closet is hollow, to hollow, the dull echo is what proves it so. It travels far, shelves of shoes, polished and shined, belts made of the finest leather, and a small tiny drawer that held his small tiny collection of scarfs. They were the scarfs he loved, the scarves that held all his shortcomings and tears. Essentially, they were his friends. The invisible bonds that didn't keep him safe, but went through the same misery he once did. That was even more important to him then protection. He desired loyalty.

Ivan's hand gently picks at his favorite scarf. The one that's been with him longer than his sisters, his family, the cold. But at the same time it held memories, bad memories of doubt and insecurities. Hidden under the white fluff are unidentifiable blotches of pink. Paint through the years, surely.

His hand hovers over to a darker, scarf, one that would look great on a villain. One that would compliment his pale skin, and violet eyes, including the pale blond strands of ivory hair. He picks this one for today because right now he's not supposed to be himself but good looking Ivan Braginski. And he was good looking Ivan Braginski, he didn't need any mask to tell him that.

He wraps it around his neck delicately before smiling contently. Letting the longer sides fall unequally by his sides, it's exactly as he thought. The ink black look compliments him, and for some reason he feels flattered. With the smooth motion of his hand, the mirror slides back to place, reflection and all staring back at him. The echo of soft padded heels hit wood as he passes through the corridor that travels past every member of the 'ALLIES''s room. He whistles a joyful tune, a melody about birds trapped in a diamond bird cage with an exciting plan of escape. Whether they will succeed is still undecided.

Fleeting glances of bright red and black make Ivan stop. Slowing his pace to a unrecognizable speed. The tune slowly dissolves into a deep hum of contemplation. Surely it wouldn't hurt to look? Yao was still a faraway dream to Ivan. A person who was a perfect enigma, a brain that worked for numbers and success. While a heart that sat useless, hurt, and in the process of healing. From what? Ivan didn't know, and his heart pounds in his chest in anticipation. It's a funny thing anticipation. It stems to other emotions, negative emotions such as nervousness, and fright. The ones that once controlled Ivan's life. The feeling of coldness and hatred are not that far behind.

Anticipating something made your heart pound, and for Ivan, he wasn't sure if it was out of excitement or dread. However he was certain that he was curious. _But curiosity did kill the cat._

From his view Ivan can barely make out the large ink words hung up around the walls. An elegant foreign language painted in black taints but brings the walls to life. He's not entirely certain what they say, but he's sure they are beautiful. The slow dip of the curves and the practiced sharpness of the lines is all the proof he needs. He wanted to know. He wanted to help. But he couldn't. He came to that conclusion a long time ago when he first met the Asian beauty. He could only sooth the pain within a set distance, and if that pleased Yao then he was fine with it to. It was always like that. If Yao was happy, then so was he. That's what he told himself to believe on the nights he heard whimpering across the thin walls. That's what he wished he felt. But he was greedy, and he wanted more. He wanted to be the hero the public thought he was.

With a final glance of red, Ivan leaves the empty room. A slow pace transforming into a heavy dash for the door. He couldn't look back, he was afraid of the curiosity and the unwavering greed that seemed to eat at his heart. Grabbing the only keys he finds on the kitchen counter, he yanks the main door open. Slamming it with such vigour, he could hear an echo bounce off the walls of an empty duplex. He struts away, standing straight with his head held high. He pretends that his feelings for the Asian man is as locked as the door itself. Cold steel around heartfelt emotions. Because right now he had to be happy, because right now he was Ivan Braginski, representative of the 'ALLIES'. Because right now, at that instant, he realized how hard it was to force a smile...

(To our long awaited punch of the day!)

The swing was hard, it was the kind of punch that would leave the opponent staggering back. It was the kind of punch that you would use if you wanted to kill someone, and Arthur was sure that the enemy knew it to. His fist was fast, and steady, aimed directly at the gaping Japanese male. And when it hit, he relished in the feeling of the softness of the skin, the sharp bone that hid underneath, and the loud hiss of pain. But that's what he felt, skin to skin contact, the burning sensation of his fingertips as they went white with fury. Arthur's eyes remained on the ground, half lidded in blind rage, even now he was a coward. He couldn't even look at his victim as he struck, so he relied on his ears and his sense of touch instead. But that's when he noticed the subtle differences between the Japanese man and what he felt. Skin too soft and too smooth to be the Japanese's who now seems to stand further than his outstretched arm. Only then did he dare look up to see the truth of his punch. Red and ebony blinding him entirely.

Yao stood there, both intimidating and wild. A growing red stain fighting a war against the clean white fibers of his dress shirt. It stains a beautiful shade of red, complementing the golden pupils that spark the worst kind of fear in the Brit. His golden eyes dilate in anger, catching the sun in it's own burning gleam.

"Aiyaa…" he hears Yao groan.

So striking so mesmerizing, Arthur had to hold his breath to stop his own shock. Blood trails from Yao's cheekbone to the slender curve of his neck, it was impossible to see the bruising through the red that hides the ivory colour of his skin. He was gorgeous. In the way that suddenly he felt untouchable, out of his reach.

"你不知道如何去做任何事，但你肯定知道如何收拾一拳...*" The Asian mutters under his breath, and Arthur breaks from his momentarily daze. His concern grows as quickly as the rage in his heart. A quiet subconscious voice screams at Yao for interfering, a small voice that questions Yao's loyalty to the 'ALLIES', and the small voice that screams at himself for caring. His fist is still in the air, although it sags slightly, he could see the hurt that it's done. The purple bruises that slowly start to mark it's way on his knuckles, and the sharp pain that follows. The red that doesn't belong to him, and the horrible scent of iron and metal. Sun coloured irises quietly watch the Brit. Watching carefully as his fist lowers to his side, and Arthur is certain that Yao sees the trembling that follows. The British turns his head to the side, staring silently at broken burgundy bricks. Warm gold has never appeared so cold to him before. They were like frozen overed suns, the only heat that radiated from them was the fear that it ignited. The _humiliation_ , and _embarrassment._

"You should really watch wild dogs like _him, Yao_ " The Japanese man's voice startles the Brit, and the fire in his heart grows. His words were the oil to his own inner flare. Burning slowly like a slow tipping candle. Arthur stares at Yao's face, watching as the blood starts to dye his white shirt red. It's clear the crimson is winning the war. The two of them hold a long stare, both of them unwilling to look away in shame. It's a game of who's wrong, and the British man wouldn't admit defeat. After all, he was defending Yao, his friend. A small voice in his mind says otherwise, whispering nightmares about reputation and pride. Since when was he so skeptical about everything? Since when has he gotten this suspicious?

"I really should, _Kiku_. I'm terribly sorry for my comrades rash…" Yao speaks fluently, not an ounce of terror in his voice. It's unusually strong and strangely intimidating. " _Behaviour_."

The Chinese man keeps his back to the 'AXIS', his eyes are narrowed with resentment, and his lips are pressed in thin lines, preventing any blood to enter. Arthur's cheeks flush in shame and embarrassment, it was like his blood harboured toxins of all kind. Hatred being one of them. Hatred was a terrible thing. It made you lose sight of what was right and wrong, good and bad. But worst of all, it made you lose composure. And Arthur Kirkland never lost his composure in front of others, so why did he have to now? Since when was he so incapable of controlling logic and emotions? The perfect balance starts to tilt in his mind, letting loose chaos and madness. Logic and emotion were two mediums in the entertainment industry. Two different and very separate ideals.

"Ve!~ **Anger** issues!~" the missing Italian pops up behind the German. Feliciano carries a small smile on his lips. Taunting the British to retort, and Arthur growls in misery. Ludwig nods, remaining monotone despite the commotion. After all, Ludwig was reserved but none better than the rest. They were after all, all rotten to the core.

"How amusing it is to taunt this _savage_." Kiku pauses before grinning. It's the kind of grin that makes you shiver in disgust rather than excitement. The Japanese man's words make Yao tense, and to Arthur's surprise, the Chinese man finally turns to the opposing team. To Arthur, Yao was a simple yet complex being. He was a man of simple traditions, tea in the morning, and tea during the sleepless nights. However, his lengthy history in the dark made Arthur question this simplicity. Made him wonder if Yao was a liar with as many secrets he held, as many fears he had, and as many restrictions he harboured. Because he himself, was definitely not a simple being.

Arthur stares at the Asian man's back. It was so slender so small and frail. Like a small porcelain doll that looked like it could shatter with the slightest touch, but Arthur knew he stands corrected, because Yao wasn't anything like that. Yao was strong and capable, with a mind set only born leaders had, he was a strong man confined in a elegant feminine body- the kind that wouldn't bother taking a punch for the enemy. The British man frowns in disbelief, struggling to put the puzzle pieces together. It was an impossible puzzle, the kind that had millions of pieces with tens of thousands missing. He desired to finish it, to expose the lies and truths that wrung them all together. He felt like it was his duty, a self proclaimed mission of justice that had consequences. After all, some things were best left hidden in the dark. Images of dark alleys and green makes him swallow.

The sudden sound of a loud growl makes his head snap up, his eyes on the ebony strands of hair that sway in hypnotizing directions. Yao leaves his side, and slowly saunters to the Japanese man who spares a glance with the German who watches from the shadows. He wasn't the only coward in the crowd. Yao's hands are clenched as he rashly wipes the blood that trails to the tip of his chin. His steps are heavy and slow, almost at a leisure pace.

"Don't you dare…" Yao pauses before squaring his own shoulders, suddenly looking taller and stronger. Arthur's never seen him act this way before, he looks bolder and older. Like the small age gap they all shared heightened to terrifying intervals.

"If you hurt him. Any of my team's members, I won't hesitate to inform your producers about what you were discussing in the dark. You do know you are openly admitting to the public your winning streak is stained with cheats and trickery do you? Completely capable of sue and jail time, staining your career with a nasty reminder of your.."

Yao pause's, Arthur can see the stiff shoulders and the hesitation. This is the Yao he knew, the man who bended laws, the man who knew real trickery and has used it in his own life. The man who controlled the success of the 'ALLIES', the hidden ring leader beneath the circus curtains.

" **Failures**.." Yao ends before turning his back against the Japanese man who remains neutral. The moment Yao turns his back Kiku's eyebrows etch into a deep frown. That was more than enough confirmation to know that he understands the message. He understands the threat, he knows the power and danger of the words. But most of all, he knew that it was the truth. Yao wouldn't hesitate if it meant to eliminate a strong opponent.

" **Arthur**." Yao voice says sharply, and his head tilts the side. Smooth strands of hair contouring his slim face.

The British man snaps his head up, straightening is back as the Asian man gestures for him to follow. Tow coloured eyes shift forward to the sun that covers half of his face. Emitting pretty shadows to cross over his forehead. Arthur quickly follows, following the swaying of a loose ponytail. They barely make it further then a couple steps before the Japanese man speaks. His voice is low and taunting, mimicking exactly what Yao did seconds before.

"Just like _**old**_ times, _hm_ _Yao-Senpai_?" Yao doesn't stop. A growing frown graces his shadow covered eyes. His lips create a scowl that makes Arthur's shiver. Arthur is sure that the remark hits a nerve and he's equally certain that Yao's hit Kiku's. It was a war of control and composure, something that he should probably learn. A battle between two masterminds of equal power, both trying to tie down the other on an intimidating and dangerous platform. It was repulsing to watch, and Arthur tries to focus on the sound of laughter and the scent of sweat that reeks from the nearing pub. The walk back to the duplex is quiet and entirely disturbing. The life in Yao's eyes return slowly, and the permanent sneer fades into a grim line. His back loosens from it's stiff demeanor, and to Arthur's relief he looks like himself again. Lost, but still himself.

"I'm sorry." The British man says hoarsely, he's met with a long silence, and he cracks one of his own smug smile. He look's at the blue sky, the sun getting covered by dark ominous clouds of rain and thunder. Suddenly, the Asian man stops and Arthur almost bumps head first into his shoulders. He stumbles backward, avoiding the collision between the Asian, worried that it might trigger another conflict. He didn't want to see his comrade like that again, it was to different. To wild and crazed for him to ever imagine. He couldn't even recognize him through the deep golden eyes that stared at him so coldly.

"Thank you." he hears a faint whisper. The crackle of thunder comes next, and the feeling of cold droplets sink into his clothes. A small smile reaches his lips, barely visible but still there as he watches the Chinese man slowly continue his pace. Although it is slower now, no longer as agitated even with the crash of lightning. Arthur spares a glance at liquid gold eyes, and he's surprised to see small tears slowly making there way on his wet cheeks. Salt mixing in with semi- dried blood. It was surprising to see someone who showed such ferocity to become so weak and frail, but everyone had their weak times. It was all one cruel emotional cycle. Exactly like life. A slow cycle of defeats and fake rewards.

Arthur wasn't the best with handling situations like these. On nights like this he often drowned himself with distractions, woman and cheap beer that numbs the bitter pain. But he knew that wasn't what suited Yao.

So instead, he cracks his own sad smiles before nodding his head.

"No, Thank you."

 **You don't know how to do anything, but you sure know how to pack a punch ... ...***

 **It's a really trashy chapter I apologize. Probably worse than all of them so far, I'm really ashamed. However, thank you for the reviews! They really mean a lot, and I hope you guys continue giving me your support!**

 **I update in every two weeks (or at least I try) So Please don't give up on me!**

 **I'm just trying to zoom on everyone's secrets and friendships between the characters! Can you guess everyone's worst secret?**


	5. Where The Heart Lies- Chapter Five

The World's Stage

 **Where The Heart Lies**

Chapter Five:

 **Before I continue with this chapter, I'd like to address that I've had a problem with uploading the previous chapter. Then again, it was my first time uploading from the mobile app, I had troubles for it to get notified of my changes. On the PC, the chapter never came up, so with hesitation I tried resubmitting the chapter. Thus leading to a very overdue chapter. Not only that, but I had troubles with watching the incline of views. Although I'm not one to write for views and reviews, it was fairly strange to see a updated chapter not have a spike of views. I received a review that claimed there was a problem and the admins are fixing it.**

 **Either way, on with the chapter!**

It was sudden. The rain was sudden. It hit the Russian in a mass of cloud and water. Lukewarm air entering the pores of his polyester coat. A thin layer of growing wetness coating his styled hair. He also adored the rain. It was a silent reminder that he inhabited in warmth. A place that was warm enough for the ice in his view to melt. A place with enough warmth for the coldness of his own glacier soul to melt in a frenzy. After all, sometimes his fear grew and grew like the coldness he was born from. A huge glacier holding bowls of freezing tears. Every tear just adding to the massive glass sculpture he was. Cold, untouchable, reflective of all the doubts he had.

He covers his eyes with a pair of glasses, round in style, a light vintage pink hues his violet eyes. It creates a darker shade. A pink that looks like it's been severed with blues and reds. A strong amount of pigment that contradicts the light heartiness of the shade. However, he was disappointed and irritated. After all, he was an impatient man, and keeping things on his to-do list was something that ran circles in his head. The lose of time was critical to the schedules he carefully weaved, a routine that had to be obeyed. A routine that demanded the world to follow. But today it didn't. Because it had _rained_.

He runs a hand through his hair, carefully ruining the combed back style he put time and effort in. Why should he waste his time on something that the world denied? Giving and taking had to be of mutual trust. Of mutual terms that if broken would never quite be the same. The laughter of thunder makes him shudder, a reminder that the rain around him does not come without threat. Nothing in this world was truly harmless, nothing. Even the most simple of things harboured secrets. Flowers had thorns, leaves had small sharp spikes, and smiles could be of mockery. Everything had a defense mechanism, and Ivan had his own.

Light flashes behind him, and the sound of electric currents pulse in his blood. It seems like the world was truly not on his side today.

He smiles grimly before taking off his glasses. A faulty disguise on a faulty day. The rain around him continues, soaking into his coat until he can barely feel the graze of growing wetness. He walks a little faster this time, a little deeper into the abyss of rain and lightning. After all, where would he go now? The distance between the duplex and him was rather grande and with the growing barrier of rain and light would mean treading not only a long road, but a dangerous one at that. Ivan considered himself living an already dangerous life, but death was something that even his own instincts would not allow. Death was for cowards who deserved it. Not powerful people who lived for the thrill of danger.

Ivan walks cautiously on the empty streets of Toronto, heading to the nearest destination he could think of. The studio. The place with mirrors that reflected all angles of the human anatomy. The place where the slightest slip of wonder could be seen from all four walls. Reflection of hidden glances, hidden mouthed words were all caught by the crystal mirrors that adorned every wall.

Ivan nears a large hotel, women and men smoke together forming clouds of smoke that absorb the rain. When he walks past, he pushes the small frames f his glasses closer to his face. Most women turn their heads to him eyeing him like the candy man he was. He nods his head, a tentative smile gracing his lips as the women giggle back, enjoying the attention. The men glare him, attempting to divert the crowd's attention from the now smirking Ivan. The scent of cigar and tobacco make him want to play the game they were playing. Flirting came so easy to him, and he winks to a woman who gives the same kind of inviting smile. The kind of smile that was useless but beautiful while it lasted. Because these kinds of affections didn't warm his heart like someone else's, because the sensual environment of smoke and laughter doesn't beat the arms of the person he loves. And that's why he does it. That's why he does it back, because no matter what, they don't reach his heart. He tilts his head to the side before walking past the hotel, hearing murmurs of awe and giggles fleet his ears. He had to come visit again, the woman were beautiful.

 ** _A wonderful distraction_**.

His hair sticks to his head, and he smiles. Letting the water drip on his long eyelashes before letting them cascade off onto his pale cheeks. They were like the tears he's never shed before and it makes his smile grow. He crosses a small intersection before making it in front of a large building. The building hoists many floors and the remaining open blinds leave small lights flickering into the night sky. They were like electrical stars that were brighter than any North Star that led the way home. Ivan enters the building, letting the water drip onto the plush red carpets that decorate the main lobby. Lightning crackles behind him and he smiles smugly.

"Mr.Braginski?" A sudden female voice says. Warm brown eyes meet his own, and he smiles. It was the Britain's request to hire her. Saying that she was organized and functional despite her short temper. He would love to see her angry, he has yet to see any other side of her other then a quiet woman counting off the hours of a high paid job. Her dark ash hair sways as she quickly recovers a towel from nowhere. Holding it in between her thin fingers.

"Ah yes..thank you," he nods his head and takes the towel, massaging it deeply into his hair. "To the studio please."

The Seychelle's girl nods. Gesturing him to an already open elevator shaft. He steps in and she steps in after, the door closes and she quickly presses a golden encrusted button. The lift is silent and Ivan silently counts the floors until it reaches the 37th. As much as the fluffy towel helps it doesn't stop with the drag that the water on his coat provides. His arms feel heavy in weight and he finds it troubling to breath with the moist humidity that seems to cover his neck. The beep of an opening elevator door, makes his breath hitch and he quickly leaves the small boxed lift. He wanted to run and strip himself of his suffocating coat, but he had to remain composed even with the heavy scarf that scraped against his skin. He turns back and forces himself to smile at the girl who only stares as the elevator door closes. He doesn't mind the distance. After all, he only saw her as dutiful elevator girl. A person who was under his own standing.

He walks carefully on the clean black carpets that lead to a thin glass door. There group name showers the wall in bold indifference. He was getting sick of seeing glass.

Gently pulling the door open, his wet fingers leave deranged fingerprints on the door handle. The cold metal feels even colder in his grasp and he quickly pulls away as if harmed.

He passes the stained glass walls that interconnect with four different rooms. Each carefully labelled with their surnames, he sees the calligraphic writing of Yao, the cursive that the Britain often signed autographs with, and his own name in a bold indifference. It's beautiful written, dark in colour, ending with a harsh line of uneven ink. It was just like his personality.

He pushes the handle less door to his own little space, and quickly strips himself of the suffocating coat. He expertly unbuttons the large amount of buttons that adorn his coat, half for decoration and the other half merely to keep him warm on cold nights. His fingers dig into his skin and he is grateful that the pale white shirt that peaks underneath the coat remains dry. That's how good his coat was. It was a thing of fine quality.

Taking off his leaking pants in the process, he searches the small open cabinets for extra dance wear. He was always prepared for these kinds of things and much to his own admiration he finds a pair of durable black running pants hidden underneath a spare towel. Without a second doubt he quickly dresses himself stretching sore muscles in the process. His skin felt cold underneath his touch and his sweating fingers created a much needed heat. Goosebumps hide underneath the black running pants that fit loosely on his legs.

Walking past a long mirror he stares deftly at himself. He looked good. And he meant it in a way that meant self-confidence. Self reassurance that supported him when he felt sad, he had confidence. He had to. Glass hearts were scorned and burned rapidly in the heat of the spotlight. He needed confidence, if not, at least a fake air that masked potential red lights that flashed his way. Because he knew he had insecurities. Because he knew that even to this day, he's been living a lie. A play that he controlled. He was both the writer and the actor, and the stage was simply the platform he performed on. The real judges of his work were the people in the audience, whether or not they liked the fake Ivan he's created from thin air.

And maybe that's what made him desire Yao with a burning passion. Because he was like a beautiful moth to the flame, bearing a glass heart himself. But what made him different was that he was still here. Still standing so strongly, so bravely in front of everyone no matter the scars of a realized truth. And that's what made him love Yao, desiring to mend all the wounds that truth had inflicted. Maybe that was why he chose to lie, because that way, he to could shield his own heart in an attempt to mend another.

The small room he was in was cramped, simply a small changing room for a regular dancer, nothing special. At the end of the boxed room was another door constructed out of bright birch that mixes in so well with the reflectiveness of the rooms. Everything was so bright, so horribly pale that it made him sick. He would consult the renovators.

Sparing one last glance at himself he decides to spend his time wisely in the practising room. He hasn't danced or done any means of exercise since there second place album, and one of his greatest fears was losing the shape he was in. Changing his defined muscles into ugly fat. He of course had muscles but it wasn't the kind that was so prominent it looked disgustingly inhuman. No, they were there, obvious but still looked like skin over flesh. They were proof of sweat and time, the proof of a mile run every single day.

Pulling the door with vigor he meets an already dancing figure. Shocked he watches as straw blond hair moves to an invisible beat. Alfred. The movements are fast, quick in tempo and require a high level stamina to continue moving. It takes a highly skilled dancer to move so quickly. The excitement is clear within the dance and it's proved within the small detailed way his fingers dance on his skin. It takes a while for the blond to notice the figure lurking in the shadows. The dance comes to a sudden halt, their eyes meeting in the mirror that stretches far too far.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Alfred asks, slowly turning around to face the Russian. Ivan could see the beads of perspiration that slowly trail from his forehead to his light blue t-shirt. He looked exhausted but the gleam in the American's eyes said otherwise.

"I was about to ask _you_ the same thing," Ivan retorts lazily. Why else would he be here other than to dance and to wait the rain off? What was he going to do, talk to the mirror in front of him, asking for sweet condolences for a man that seemed so far out of reach?

Alfred speaks quickly as if offended, but in reality it's just the lingering adrenaline from his latest dance.

"Chill, I've been practicing and creating the dance for the audition. It's close to finished now actually." Alfred places a tentative hand in the air faking a mock innocence making the Russian clench his teeth together. "Care to watch?"

"I thought you were supposed to create the dance _after_ you've received the lyrics and the rhythm?" Ivan retorts quickly, a layer of poison lacing his words. To his surprise, it comes out in mild annoyance, something like what a mother would say to a small child who has done something wrong.

Alfred shrugs, letting out a short huff. "No biggie, just contact Yao and Mattie, they can go figure something out."

Ivan frowns, a seeping look of cold murder shadowing his face. The way that Alfred speaks makes his blood go boiling. He spoke as if he didn't care about the world, he spoke as if the world revolved around his little broken American head. As if Yao and there own boss would restart everything for the sake of his dance. And they would, which made Alfred speak with all the more confidence. He was a spoiled brat. With talent for sure, but which one of them didn't?

Alfred slowly starts walking to the center of the room, all four mirrors catching his small smile of a undying ego. But maybe that's what made him special. Because his confidence was as real and as raw as Ivan's fake facade. He was a truthful man with a dangerous pride. That alone was something that Ivan admired.

"But that's not how the _professionals_ work Alfred." folding his arms he leisurely walks closer to the center. He wanted to intimidate and conquer. He wanted to displease the American as much as he did to himself. To bring misery and humiliation. You knew you won the war when the loser knew it just as well.

The blond doesn't turn back, instead he watches through the mirror. Staring at Ivan like an eagle does to it's pray. But Ivan wasn't weak, wasn't something that he could best, wasn't something he could beat. However, he was just a man. A man with a horrible jealous and competitive nature. So he played on that. Because that was the only possible way to end the deadly stare that broke through the glass.

He smirks, "I'm not the _professionals_ Ivan, I'm simply **_me_**."

And with that it started.

It was a flurry of dance moves. Something that would catch Ivan's attention and something that didn't. It was good that way, it made the audience anticipate to be impressed. The tempo is fast, almost to quick for Ivan to notice the little jagged breaths that Alfred realizes in struggle. Maybe he was simply tired? Much to Ivan's amusement the tempo doesn't die down. There were no ups and downs in this piece, simply magnificence. A grandeur of sharp and in sync leg twists and hand movements. There was no compromise and Ivan liked that.

It's a mixture of hip hop and dancing that doesn't fit any other category other then just Alfred. But he feels the pain, the Russian could see the struggle and after another sharp turn of Alfred's leg he could see how it hurts. How a piece that was simply magnificent did indeed have compromise. A self compromise of time, control, and sweat. Arthur would be perfect for this piece, he was quick and witty. Sharp with both his feet and tongue. Then he thinks of Yao. The older man who owned a good amount pain relievers, and sleeping pills. He thinks of the added stress that it would take for Yao to learn this piece. The amount of sweat that would be needed, the sheer amount of strength.

He gazes at the small thrusts of Alfred's hips and how they swing to a invisible rythme. Yes, Yao would have to change his lyrics. Yao loved slow songs, a song with soft lyrics and romantic lyrics. Much to his pleasure he remembers how that was one of his many weaknesses. He wasn't used to the need to please the crowd with dances that showcased muscles, and skin. He was to innocent and although Yao tried to hide it, he still was. He still fell for the spiders tricks. It was good if he was the only spider on the web, but he wasn't. There was always others.

By the time he's done worrying about the Eastern man, he hears the final steps of Alfred. The final wave of his sweating fingers, and the unending amount of gasps of oxegen. Beads of sweat fall on the ground as the blond seducingly runs a finger through his hair.

The American has a smirking face despite the sweat that covers him like a second skin. Ivan rolls his eyes before a small smile graces his features. God, he loved Alfred to. Although hate was there, a family love and admiration was there to. It mixed together so perfectly and he was certain that Alfred felt it to.

Alfred raises one eyebrow half expecting a praise, and to his greater pleasure he receives it.

"Not _bad_ ," Ivan says. His palm presses agasint the Americans shoulder and he smiles. It was a genuine smile that deserved an equal amount of praise. There was a difference between his cold, perfect and distant smiles compared to that of his genuine ones. Something magical and even more perfect.

"You mean extremely impressive, Yeah?" Alfred retorts quickly before getting sent a nasty looking glare. Any time Alfred could receive praises from the Russian was indeed a honour. After all, they were all friends and he wanted to have his friends admiration. He only had that much confidence, and maybe that was his weakness to. When you were at the top no one asked if you were okay.

The small tremor of the ground makes Alfred jump in surprise and Ivan snicker.

"I still haven't gotten an answer about why you're here," Alfred shakes his head in pure annoyance. Ivan always had that skill. To distract the person with smiles and praises wholesomeness making the other forget the real puprose. He was a sneaky predator in a sea of naïve people. Dangerous, horrible, but so uselful.

"It's raining," Ivan says. He pauses for a moment before sighing. "I was unable to do the meet and greets. How unfortunate _Da_?"

Alfred simply shrugs, not seeing the annoyance of having something incomplete. Mainly because he lived a life where everything was last minute. Where preparation was not something that came first in mind. He worked hard but played even harder, something he should teach Yao and Arthur.

Theres a moment of silence, a comfortable pause, and Alfred takes the time to slow his breathing, checking his pulse on his neck.

"While we're waiting for the rain, why don't you let the master teach the dance. Because we all know you hate wasting time." Alfred shrugs, looking at the ground nervously.

Truths behind the words, and as much as Ivan would love to retort, its true. There's no time to wait. They had less then a week now, time was slipping between there fingers and they needed to grasp it at all costs. They had to win, not to suffer from a second place, but to really and truly; conquer.

However he was wrong in _one_ aspect, _everything_ was a waste of his time if he wasn't with the person that truly made him feel at home. He couldn't waste time for the schedules, the unending lists of things that he had yet to cross off. The things that separated himself from work and play time. He wonders when was the last time he's swung at a round of vodka.

But if it came to _**himself**_ , the raw emotions behind his success, then learning a dance for the sake of a reputation, was definately, without doubt,

 ** _-a waste of time._**

Back at the duplex, Arthur drowns himself in liquor and cigerettes, staring hollowly at calligraphy in the form of a free verse poem.

Yao on the other hand is already in a pill deduced sleep.

An empty pill bottle at his side.

 **ATTENTION! I MEAN IT! ARE YOU READING THIS VERY LINE?**

 **Well, here's a little chapter of Alfred and Ivan's interaction, a snippet of the hate- love relationship they have going on. Isn't it adorable?**

 **Aside from that, I mean it when I say this. I have some questions for you guys, my wonderful supporters.**

 **1.What ships should I add between the ALLIES and the AXIS? (Love interest)**

 **2\. What do you want to see more of as in interacation? (Characters)**

 **3\. (For my own amusement) is this fanfiction alright so far? (Be honest)**

 **That's it! I would really love if you guys answer them (I aim to please after all!~)**

 **WAIT THERES MORE! I WOULD WANT TO MAKE A SPECIAL REQUEST FOR A CERTAIN "GUEST" WHO ALWAYS COMMENTS SUCH GREAT, HEARTWARMING COMMENTS TO ANSWER THE FOLLOWING QUESTIONS, BECAUSE YOU GIVE ME SO MUCH FEEDBACK AND LOVE. I CANT EXPRESS MY WORDS OF THANKS.**

 **I have BIG plans for this fanfiction, I mean it as in an amazing ending, and a HUGE amount of plot. I realized that I haven't really been making days as in real dates in the fanfiction such as night, Morning, the passing of days. So now we have our first day done!**

 **Bye bye!~**


	6. Pills and Pity- Chapter Six

The World's Stage

 **Pills and Pity**

Chapter Six

I **'m so relieved that you guys (my wonderful readers) have actually responded with such amazing feedback. Of course, I'm trying to please you guys but also myself. And I will be, I'm sure of it. Reading your reviews it suddenly stumbled upon me, how I will have to compromise with your wishes and my own plans for this story to continue. As you guys are aware there IS a one-sided relationship between Ivan and Yao, and I have to admit, I love some good Ivan x Yao (making that clear). Thankfully, no one commented that they were strongly against it (phew..). However, the conflict between the pairing containing Alfred and Arthur (Ahh god..) and the Axis (a mess right now), is just a handful of problems. I WILL give you guys a well build up relationship no matter how strange the pairing. I have pairings in my head (Can't spoil of course) but with that, I would be only satisfying a certain amount of people, remember I am considering the biggest ships in the hetalia fandom as a WHOLE to (and those pairings...well are obvious).**

 **What I'm trying to get as is there will be compromise. However, who says I'm writing a fanfiction purely based on romance? (I don't write smut). As for the friendships pairings, I completely agree with you guys. I'm bringing WAY more groups into this so just you wait! Nordics, Baltics, everyone. However, remember if I am pairing someone it will be through time, and conflict. Not, just "I love you" "same.". Just because they are a pairing does not mean they will openly show very intimate affection.**

 **This story is also one of friendship. All of the characters have flaws very human flaws and I honestly hate it when fictional characters are to 'perfect'.**

 **For an amazing reviewer, I will give many subtle hints of pairings I may or may not add. I have a pairing/friendship planner and believe me, some funky stuff is going to come down.**

 **(BTW, just because one person goes to another person does not mean that, that person has felt nothing for others)**

It was not the sound of birds or the smell of a burnt breakfast that made Yao wake up from his pill induced slumber, but the pill itself. The massive throbbing of his crane and his chest as blood rushed to places it shouldn't be. It blurred his vision as he let the pain bring him to the verge of another unconsciousness. And he almost let it- almost succumbed to the desire of another forced sleep. At least that way he would be able to rest. To sleep off the permanent pain in his legs and spine, to avoid the stress of something and somebody on his mind. To remain duty less for a mere couple hours. To remain free and honest as the seconds of unconsciousness slowly left him. Maybe that was why he loved sleep, because it was a mean of time travel. To live in a time where everything was better, more simple as you lived in a fleeting dream that would also die at one point. Because everything died, even the good things.

He carefully props himself up, and only then does the smell of burnt coals and ashes reach his nose. It smells of strong smoke, as if it's been fermented and accumulated slowly, and it probably has. It burns his eyes which doesn't help at all with his aching head, he finds it hard to breath as he suffocates against his own chest. The bones and muscles constricting against his lungs and heart, much like what a snake does to it's prey. Suffocating a tiny dormouse until death. He narrows his eyes at his open door before sighing loudly. Stumbling against a fallen plastic bottle, Yao grabs a large folded paper, neat lines of words adorning the printed lines. He slowly slumps to the kitchen. Half lidded eyes and a great sense of smell leading his way.

"You dimwit, quickly choose!" He hears someone shout and he winces, holding his throbbing head in his hands. His fingers run soothing gestures on his scalp, the tendrils of his hair creating thick knots that pull at his fingers. It was exactly like a spiders web. His hair simply a sticky web that hid the pain of a pulsing inferno of hurt. His head hurt to the degree of bursting, he doesn't recall the amount of pills he ate. In the heat of the moment he simply downed anything that would let him forget. To forget the pain and the horrible and forlorn secret promise he's made. A vow that if broken would lead to nothing but _blood_. Then again, if not broken it would also lead to nothing but the colour _red_. It was simply a matter of _who_. There was no way out on this, no way to change the undeniable fate that destiny had put him on. He smiles grimly, what a _cruel_ fate.

"I'm trying as you can see! Which one do you think he will like more? Red tea, green tea, black tea, all these other teas with names I can't pronounce…oo!~ _flower_ tea's!,"

An anguished sigh is followed by a small shallow laugh. Arthur and Alfred.

"I can't believe I don't know what tea Yao Yao likes…," he could hear a faint whimper of regret before a heavy growl. Ivan.

"Well, _believe_ it.

We're all cock ups* right now. And if anything, _I_ can't believe it. He's **_my_** **_tea_** buddy, our afternoon tea parties hold very extensive and detailed talks, such an interesting fellow he is...However, we do drink a little bit of everything...Alfred don't be a sod off* and pick the Darjeeling tea please."

The Asian man could hear an annoyed sigh and a string of curses before the crumbling of carefully plucked tea leaves being tossed into boiling water. He finally slumps to the curb of the hallway before lazily leaning against the farest counter. His hair was not tied leaving gentle tresses saunter past his shoulders. He was too tired to care that he looked like a mess. Too tired to care that Darjeeling was definitely one of his most _least_ favorite teas. He was so tired that he may as well fall unconscious at any given moment, and he waited and hoped that it would happen. It was an incredible way of escape.

"Well someone's clearly woken on the wrong side of the bed, _da_? Or maybe it was a dream? What were you, a princess? Because I don't remember you ruling over _this_ castle." Ivan responds bitterly, before biting his lower lip in annoyance.

"If your trying to say that I'm _bossy_ , I'm not. I just know what you peasants should be do-"

The British man turns around at an attempt to check the tea before spotting Yao. He quickly straightens his back, shifting his composure to make him look a little taller, a little colder, a little more severe. It was strange to see the full transformation of a handsome man into a hauntingly eerie prince. And it worked, because all of a sudden Arthur looked older, and with age came wiseness and refinement. The kind of seriousness that scared and intimidated Yao. The eyes of a judge beneath the stage, judging and solving the entertainer. The Asian man narrows his eyes in suspicion. You should never trust the judge.

" _Yao_! Good morning," The British waves slightly before frowning at the scent of smoke coming from the boiling water. How could water burn?

"Good Morning Arthur,"

"Yao Yao! Sit down, sit down!" Ivan jumps up from the sofa he was sitting on, the decorative pillows fall and land gently on the ground. His feet are bare as they quickly walk towards the Chinese man who stares in mild confusion. The Russian's scarf falls gently on his shoulders, his neck exposed to the sun's tantalizing rays.

"No, no, I'm fine standing actually, thank you but I'm fi-,"

"I **_insist_** , da?"

Violet irises pierce gold and for a moment his cheeks flush in embarrassment. Heat spreading to his cheeks and ears overflowing them with colour. He was intimidated. Intimidated by a person he's worked with for years, intimidated by those amethyst orbs that focused on him with such intent. Like the Russian could see only him at the moment, like he was the _world_ and that everything else was simply a backdrop to a beautiful illusion. An inception- an enigma that was unsolvable and impossible, and it was meant to be that way. The way Ivan looked at him was a mystery, and he enjoyed it, drowned in the complexity of the beauty. Of the puzzle.

"No, I'm fi-," Yao only has enough time to see Ivan's subtle frown before a small annoyed sigh. The kind of sigh you would receive from an impatient mother, and the Asian frowns at finding himself in the child's role. He was not good at acting like things he was not. Suddenly, his feet hang in the air, his head so high up that he almost hits the headlights that flicker and buzz occasionally. His thighs are constricted in Ivan's arms as he swings through the air, the look of mild shock still strewn across his face. It was such a strong grip, the blood in his legs vanishing and his face pales immensely.

"Ivan! Ivan! Are you _insane_?! Let me down!" He kicks and thrashes his fists into the shoulders of the Russian, not noticing the dark and agitated frown that masks his face. He stares at the bystanders and notices how all of them look down. Look wrong, and off. As if there faces wore temporarily masks of indifference. Of hesitation of something bigger to come. Their faces held no emotion, the strain of a frown and a smile both not seen. They were wiped clean of expression, the stoic kind of glare you would receive from a statue, meeting your eyes except not. Distant while staring right through you.

"I said let me d-,"

"Yao Yao what you need to do is **sit** and **listen**." Ivan gently drops him on the first chair he sees. Black leather and metal contrasts the cream loose pants Yao's wearing. The fringes of the trousers barely cover the dangerously pale skin underneath his shirt. Once sitting Yao snaps his head to Ivan huffing in the process, what was the matter with all of them? His nails dig into the seat creating deep permanent marks of jagged lines. Did they know? Flashes of green paper and smiling faces make his face palen. The past was a dangerous thing. It was something that did not just haunt him, but lived in the present with him, and with every ticking moment, the future to. Time had a new meaning for Yao. It was simply a constraint, a weakness.

"What's this?" Alfred's sudden voice makes Yao yelp in surprise. Ivan casts him a glance and deepens his frown. It was not normal for him to be this agitated. Yao was a beautiful man. Calm and serious, it was what he loved about him. The way his eyes always had some sort of hidden mischief. A heated gaze that made him await the next step of a long journey. He was already enraptured, already captured in those silk strands of delicate hair. Much like a fly to a spider, except he was a smart fly, and he knew a way to get around that horrible sticky web.

A small piece of paper gets distributed to the Asian. It was the next shopping list.

"Alfred, you don't usually do the chores in this house, but you should at least know that this is a shopping li-"

"Yao, we know what it is," Arthur interrupts him, and Yao glares at him, causing the Britain's mask to fall momentarily, all that the Eastern man see's is a heart wrenching expression before the cold features set back to place. A heated gaze becoming a cold, emotionless facade. Since when did they know how to put up such fronts? They appeared so real, so beautifully perfect in the moment, and he wonders how many times he's been tricked with this mask. This fake mask of indifference. How many times have they used this on him? Then again, how many times has he used his own on them?

"Do you see what's on the list?"

Yao opens his mouth before getting beat to it. His lips press into a stern line. He hated being interrupted. More so, he hated losing control.

"Pills Yao. Dude, _pills_. _**Pills**_." Alfred answers, his fingers twitching wildly at bold letters. He recognizes the lettering, it's his own. That personalized swirl and curve he's spent years working on. That distinction that he worked on for his entire life so he could shine- so he could survive. The Asian narrows his eyes, gold becoming a hotter colour, a maddening inferno of red and yellow dancing together. A waltz, slow and excruciatingly precise in timing. But it took two to dance the waltz, and one mistake of both partners could lead to broken feet.

"And your _point_?"

"This has been what? Your tenth bottle these last couple months? Each bottle contains more than 30 little pellets! 30 Yao."

"I still don't get what your point is?"

Alfred growls in frustration breaking his facade into an angered and upset expression. His blue eyes crease as his eyebrows furrow for the first time in a long while. He suddenly seemed older. Much too old for his straw blond hair, and much too old for those eyes that rivaled the sky. Everything was off once again. Everything has gone bad. A direction that Yao could no longer change, but maybe it was supposed to be like this. Maybe.

"The point is…" Alfred trails off, a look of concern suddenly gracing his features.

"What...what are you **_doing to yourself_**?"

For a while everyone is speechless. Simply staring at the reflective marble as if the answer will slowly print itself. But it doesn't. Just like how life never follows one's wishes. It remains blank, reflections of bleak eyes the only message that it wants to condemn.

"I...Do you even hear what your _saying_ Alfred?" An incredulous gaze gets thrown his way. And only then does Alfred see the hurt. That deep kind of wound that will never cease to lessen. The kind that will be there forever, and hurt forever. The kind that does not die but simply lessen in pain. And it hurt him to. It hurt to see that mysterious wound unveil and open.

"You're going to kill yourself at this rate Yao! _Kill_. Do you know what I see when I first open the door? A drinking Arthur, telling me you've intoxicated yourself to the point of taking an entire bottle! An entire bottle! What's more is that you don't wake up Yao. You didn't wake up. Right now it's half past 2:00, **_half.past.2:00_**. How could you _do_ that to yourself? Getting yourself _drugged_ to the degree you wake up past noon."

Everyone swallows hard, the sound of a whistling kettle becoming the soul sound that everyone wants to hear. Arthur places a calming hand on Alfred's shoulder who casts a somber stare at the floor. He's never seen him like this, and it upset him. There eyes couldn't meet, a wall of anger guarding his real emotions. Everyone in the room did that. All of their emotions were guarded, hidden so that Yao couldn't see. And Yao did the same. He hid his own emotions under that layer of misunderstanding and anger.

"How...how could you say that? How could you even _say_ that, Alfred?"

And that's when everything was let loose. That was when all of those facades broke, everyone's eyes strained with worry and accusation. It sickened him. Made him want to cry and scream. Why were they looking at him like that?

"What do you mean Yao! I'm your friend, but you're bloody going overboard! Your **over** **_exaggerating_**!"

"Arthur's right. Dude, what _happened_ to you?"

Ivan remains silent. Deadly serious as he watches everything unfold. Those delicate shoulders shaking. Those red eyes now becoming a furious crimson. It seemed that even the most guarded people lost it. Lost to that anger that sat in every person's heart. He knew that the anger and hurt in the Asian's heart was a lot bigger than most. It dug too deep for a person to save. To deep of a wound for a person to even approach it. A depth and complexity that you could drown in, and Yao was already drowning. And that was why everyone was careful. Careful in handling the reason behind the wound, because to this day, it was still a horrible mystery.

"What do you mean what happened to me? What's wrong with you two!"

"What's wrong with us? What's going on with _you_!" Alfred hollers, eyes darkening.

"Out of all people I thought _you_ would know where the line ends." Arthur retorts bitterly, the concern no longer there in the heat of the moment. The rage and calmness within him battled and clashed. Rational thoughts and behaviour slowly tipping to an unfathomably bottom. The losers of a long tiring war.

By now, Yao's body was pressed against the counters in front of him. His hair looking wildly exotic. How could they say that to him? How could they blame it on him? How could they even think it was his fault? A small part of Yao say's it is. That it is his fault for being weak, that it was his fault for finally cracking, that it was his fault that he indulged in sleep and pills. But nobody was perfect, and he was so so tired. Tired of being the person who drew the line. Who made the rules and expected people to follow them when his own mind and heart lay somewhere else. He was to tired to be that star. Too tired to keep up shining so brilliantly, so brightly when his own heart dimmed in comparison. And he thought that it was okay. Okay to feel this way, and okay to show it. But clearly it was not, and he hated that. He hated how as soon as he woke up late, the spotlight was once again on him. But this time it was not by the horrible judges and audiences but his friends. His coworkers, his family, _his_ allies.

"How...how could you even say that? I'm sick and tired of dealing with all of you people who do nothing, nothing for others because you guys are all selfish people who know nothing but to criticize and critique. You guys are no better than the paparazzis and those spoiled rotten stars. You know, last night I get a call saying I need to redo my entire lyrics, mind you I've made a rough copy already for the sake of your dance Alfred. _Yours_. I was wrong. Wrong that I could let you guys accept me as me. Accept me as this, yes I use sleeping pills, and Arthur **_drinks_**. What's wrong with me? What's wrong with _me_?"

The fire of rage let loose slowly fades. Fading into the numbing sensation of a diluted pain. Everyone is staring at him now, dying words and thoughts make the silence all the worse. Those insults, those retorts that die at everyone's throat. Those _secrets_.

The kettle suddenly shrieks, and Alfred quickly turns it off, everyone briefly losing their focus, and Yao takes that time to leave. To leave and hide in his room, to hide his problems, that crumbling mask that now leaves everyone breathless. That wound that was opening to no one's conscious.

"Hey, I'm sorry-" both Alfred and Arthur try and say. A mix of strained emotions fleeting there faces.

Yao simply shakes his head, anger already at it's boiling point. He throws a piece of paper at Alfred, the neat folded creases increasing in number.

" _Take it_."

Alfred simply grips it in his own clenched fist, his anger ruining the nice folds it originally had.

Ivan's face has a sudden dark shadow, like he's not to sure who's team he's on. He was at the beginning on the blond's side. When they still had clear and kind desires and intentions, but now it's ended in a terrible blood bath and he didn't need anyone to tell him who's side he should be on now. He simply hated seeing Yao like this. Hated seeing him to deep in his pain. He hated not being able to help him and he was sure that now it would be even harder.

"Yao! Come _o_ -" and that's when they all see the tears. Those tears that make every one of them quiet down, knowing that they really have gone to far. They were small. Small tears that slid down slowly as he passed the bend. It was the first time they have personally made him cry, and Arthur makes it a personal reminder that it's his second time seeing this. But just because it's the second time does not make the surprise any less.

The door slams and everyone flinches, each one of them left standing stupidly with Darjeeling tea in there hands.

Yao is once again in bed. It was his safe haven, the place he could call home in this huge vast city. He remembers the way they looked at him. With those eyes of disbelief but apologies hanging on the tip of their tongues. They were like those reporters that interrogated a person until it hurt. The people who judged as they worked on adding salt to a person's wound. Images of them creasing their eyebrows made the Asian man's head hurt. It was as if they could of helped. Helped with Yao's pain by sharing it rather than stepping over it, helped the situation he's got himself into. That after noon he doesn't need the pills to sleep. He instead dreams of a mysterious email and broken flowerpots. He dreams of a flickering screen and white faces. There faces. There faces wretched into those concerned hollow expressions. Maybe it was another facade. Maybe it was another mask.

But one thing was sure,

 _ **If it was pity, then he did not need it.**_

( **I WOULD LOVE TO REQUEST THAT YOU, MY FELLOW READERS, ALWAYS READ MY LITTLE AUTHOR NOTES AT THE BEGINNING AND END)**

 **Alrighty! Back with an update! What's happening with Yao?! I foreshadowed a lot. TIME TO COMMENCE THE PLOT!**

 **Thank you for those wonderful reviews! I just want to say again how much they matter to me. This being my very first fanfiction, I write this with love and I'm so happy when you guys appreciate what I'm doing. I really mean it, it's not just bluffing. Thank you so much for your support. It means the absolute world to me. I would always love to hear what you think of the story so far! How's this chapter? I tried to dwell in the conflicts between the personas everyone has, and how they're all different (which results in horrible things). A little more of angry Alfred which is something we don't usually see. I hope I did well to capture this beautiful angst and suspense moment!**

 **Your feedback would mean so much! Have I gone to far? Or is it perfect? Do you guys await the next chapter? What do you think is happening with Yao?**


	7. Apology Accepted- Chapter Seven

**The World's Stage**

Apology Accepted

Chapter Seven

 **Alrighty before I start, yes this is another little footnote, I got some rather interesting reviews on how I run my fanfiction. Yes, compromise is always a great thing, and believe me, I'm still running this show. I'm simply trying to please you guys as much as I can but believe me, I won't let that stop me from making a work I'm proud of. Regarding the review that says I shouldn't be bothered by the reviews of others, believe me, they are definitely not a bother. I enjoy my reviewers as much as I love writing, it makes me happy and so far, I've received nothing but beautifully written constructive feedback. And as a writer of this work, it helps truly. However, thank you for telling me that. I suppose I'm just trying to tell you, the reviews help me in a way I can't imagine, but the people's thoughts and wishes don't control my writing. Only I can.**

 **Alright, I've been writing quite a bit recently, and I know very slow update (sorry), but I keep on gaining reviews that tell me, "Your writing is so detailed", "I love the characterization!", or "so deep!". First and foremost, thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! But I want to explain some of my characterization.**

 **Yao. He's the person I've 'changed' the most from the original work, and I...prefer the way I portray him. Remember, he's China. One of the biggest and strongest countries in the world. Aside from that, but mind you this is an idol AU, and this story happens in modern days. So with a modern setting I can only imagine Yao being a little more serious (I won't kill off his cute side, wait for that) especially since he's in some rather complicated stuff right now you can't imagine him being all happy and 'SHINATTY CHAN!". The modern world, and the dangerous and competitive entertainment industry doesn't have time for that. Therefore, Yao is a little more serious. He's direct a little I-do-things-by-myself kind of guy, he has secrets, and he's a logical thinker, but believe me, he's not cold. He comes off cold, but we all saw him take that punch for Arthur!**

 **(Rant done)**

 **Wait one more! Okay, really quickly, I know I write slow, I know my story is slow, I know. But wait. I was planning on making this chapter have two day's (fictional days) perfectly in this chapter so the next would be auditions where you meet the BTT and honhonhon France. But I saw I haven't updated in so long so I cut this chapter in two. Auditions will be in two or less chapter's, so please bear with me!**

A screen flickered, pixels of blue and black hovered under one line.

'I know your secret'

" _There are two more days until the auditions for 'The Beautiful World'! Of course I shouldn't be telling you this, but it seems the winner's of the previous competition, 'Nordic5' shall be competing again in hopes of earning the winning title!"_

It's a different news reporter this time. A person whom none of the watchers know.

" _Gossip says that the 'AXIS' and the 'Nordic5' will face head to head in an intense battle, fighting for first and second place! It is already known that the 'AXIS' first in sales; wooing girls with love songs and stealing hope from men, and the Nordic's whom sing energizing and spirit rising songs for all ages will be at a high advantage!"_

Three men sit on a single couch. All of there faces dark in expression. They did not understand why the reporter did not mention their own group. Afterall, second place was not to far off from first. Mediocre and silver but it deserved merit in it's own way. For coming close, but simply not close enough.

Arthur sighs as he stares far off into the screen. His face reflecting all the doubts the other two men had.

"Two days," he sighs before rubbing the back of his neck. "Two _bloody_ days."

The American beside him nods hesitantly, not exactly sure if he should comfort the man or be straight to the facts. Afterall, emotions did not change facts. Emotions clouded judgement and made you weak, because feelings and heartbreak were all tied to the heart. The very organ that told you whether you were scared, sick, or possibly dead. The thing that bound you to time, and that was a entertainers worst nightmare. Because everyone gets bored. The audience included. And that was the one thing Alfred worried about. The one thing that was hidden in the darkest places of his own heart. The worry of time. Fame saved him from the dark, money saved him from the poor, then what would save him from a diminishing loop of time? He wasn't sure when there time would be up, wasn't sure when there audience would no longer be there supporters but the audience to their persecution. And that's what scared him, the uncertainty of their futures no matter how long they grasped the rope that tied them to their careers. No matter how secure they were in there diamond cages.

"Yep...two days," Alfred stares at the screen in front of them, no longer listening to what the man was saying. He watched as the man moved enthusiastically, his mouth moving forming syllables that he recognizes. "Wow, it's going to be _hot_ the next few days."

Both of the other men stare at him for a while before sighing. They stare ahead, there eyes drowning in the streams of blue and red. Something was missing. More so, someone was missing, and the mere miss in presence was aggravatingly gutted. Because Yao has become part of the lives. Engraved in every cup of tea they've willingly drank, engraved in every beautiful flourish of the handwritten calendar, engraved in the small space between the American and the Russian- engraved in their hearts and there minds. And yet they have never felt so apart. So apart in the small distance they shared. That distance followed by the door that closed them off. That connection that was once burning sizzling out. And they did that. They were the cause of the downfall of a friend, a comrade, a partner, and they regretted it. Regretted it when they watched as there friend became half his own spirit, and yet they wanted to avoid the responsibility. Parts of them screamed that they were innocent. Innocent of the crime but they all knew they weren't. They all played part in this murder, all played part in this mess.

"You've gone too far, Da?" Ivan sighs, "he's in his room now, probably brooding, I mean he has no more pills, exactly what _you_ wanted." Ivan sends a cold glare to the two men, staring at the American especially.

"What happened to being a hero and saving the world? Please, can you even save those nasty things you yourself say?"

Alfred stares remotely ahead of him. Looking solemnly at the man who moves in pixelated steps. If he focuses hard he could see past the pixels almost being able to see beneath the screen. The random streams of colours that paint the picture of a colourful and lively broadcast. Ivan was right. He has gone overboard. And the worst of it was that it was due to his own anger. The anger that fueled him deeper than his righteous self during the confrontation. The anger that made the raw emotion in Yao spread until it was nothing but a wild fire amongst a hot burning coal. And he saw the hurt that lived in Yao, he saw as it ripped him apart and he saw the need to be saved, and yet he pulled away because he was a coward. Because he was scared of the very core question everyone had in their minds, why? Why was he destroying himself? And what? What was enabling himself to start his own self destruction? What made a proud man cripple, what made a proud man weak? It scared him as much as it confused him. But maybe he was always weak, he just hid it better. He always thought Yao was a fantastic actor.

"I know." Is all he says, and it's all that's needed for everyone to understand that he means it. It's just that they tried. Tried to help him, tried to be that family he needed and they have failed. Because they all came from broken pasts. All of them, they just didn't know it yet.

There is a moment of silence. Everyone parting their lips although they don't know what to say. Finally the British speaks.

"Yao really is too clever. It's almost detestable,"

"Agreed dude,"

" _Nyet_ , I find it rather appealing, actually,"

The American chuckles the kind that high schoolers do when they figure out who likes who, and Ivan rolls his eyes, a ghost of a smile still on his lips. The very thought of the man enticed him. The man created a childish delight stemmed from a deep longing and sadness. It was so simply as it was complicated. Stupid as it was smart. He adored Yao in every way. He was not sure if it was admiration or more but he loved him. He loved everything, and that was the simple part. He loved how Yao stood so brightly in the front lines, the people's judgement being the bullets to the endless war. He loved how he sipped his tea. He loved how he gently used ink to create flaming letters. He loved every delicate and perfected action. But he loved the vulnerability to. He loved the hurt that went deeper and further than anything he's ever seen. He loved seeing him tremble in anger and rage, but most of all he loved those eyes. Those gold eyes that told more than not. The eyes that told him that even he had secrets. The eyes that stared right through him; seeing past the cold and the snow. He wanted to hold him endless, to sooth the hurt, the wound, the scar that lived in every moment Yao did. The scar that hurt and grew with every stifled breath. And so he had to pursue. A game of mouse and cat and he did not plan to lose.

"I suppose it is sometimes, however, I cannot believe he has already contacted the recording studio and has already received the rhythm. According to him, Matthew was not pleased but was pleasantly surprised when he told him that he would not need to get involved."

Alfred and Ivan nod in agreement. Both of them knowing how persuading Yao was. He was a good friend and some may think he was an even better businessman. Because he knew how to persuade people. He knew how to make something bad look good. Something stupid into something dangerously intelligent. He was the man who convinced producers, the man who convinced they're directors- the person who played between the invisible border of law. Ivan remembers how he has videotaped Alfred, complying with the Americans wishes and forwarding it to Yao. He never received an answer, and the email remained answerless for the entire night.

Because the man was _working_.

Alfred takes off his glasses, rubbing his eyes vigorously. He could only imagine the sheer determination it took to finish the lyrics and restart them to a selfish demand. His selfish demand. It was a bitter lesson learnt but a small part of him told him that it was fine, because no matter what, his team members would always listen- always do what he said. Always grudgingly follow his lead, and he secretly wanted it to be that way. He loved to lead as much as Yao did, loved being as opinionated as Arthur, and loved being as skeptical as Ivan. He loved being in the spotlight and that was a genuine passion. He loved telling people how much better he was, he loved it when people knew his name. He loved shining in the midst of boring dull crowds. He liked being that person who stood out and made heads turn. To put it simply, he loved being special. And that only made his fear of time grow. Time had a reputation to take good things away.

"Poor Yao Yao...and some people thought he did nothing but mop and get himself high on pills," Ivan stats bitterly, a crushing hole of coldness getting pierced into the blond's head. "When he did all this work. And because of him we now have a finished song, we just need to practice it, and add the dance. Perfect for two days time."

Arthur grits his teeth. Regret entering the depths of his pride. It pillaged in his heart, scorching his pride and burning it to memory. He regrets it all, as much as he regrets not being able to stop him from going this far to begin with. He was right, drinking was not far off from pill usage. They both were means of numbing the pain, one in a drunken stupor and the other in a dreamless sleep. Both had dangerous consequences. But even in this moment he could not see the pain, the logic behind the situation. He could not sense the rational reasoning behind downing an entire bottle and the mysterious reason why. He did not see it. He did not see the logic and did not see how Yao could do that. But he felt it. He felt the seriousness and the aura of a heavy guilt that was in the air the moment he uttered his last standing words. And that's what made him stop, that's what made him know he's gone too far. Yet he did not comprehend on any level both emotional and mental, and perhaps that was the problem. Because he did not feel the need to apologize.

Alfred sighs before grabbing his phone. "Either way, on the shared drive he uploaded the beat, he clipped a little message telling us to call Mattie to confirm that we're doing this." He pauses before scratching the back of his head, "I don't think Mattie's gonna be really happy to hear us, so let's play it cool' kay?"

Ivan nods, narrowing his eyes in a patronizing stare. What was cooler than the Russian winter? "Da. Let's do it then."

He leans closer to the American, watching as an expensive phone brand gets flashed in front of his eyes. He certainly liked flaunting his money.

The blond nods before quickly speed dialing there boss's number, it remains on speaker and slowly the sound of metallic ringing echoes through the room. It's a sharp string of staccato notes, each seeming out of tune and Arthur flinches.

"By the way Alfred, why do you call Matthew Mattie? He's our boss for heaven's sake!" Arthur questions, he never understood the unfamiliar closeness the two seemed to share. That bond that should not exist between coworkers, boneless people of higher standing. He stares at the Americans expression trying to find something he does not know or recognize. Just something other then that carefree smile. Something different, something special. He grimaces, remembering the first time he's seen Ivan carefully slip into the warmth of a unconditional love. He watched as Ivan changed in the slightest, the way that indestructible barrier shattered in mere seconds after seeing the Asian. The way all of Ivan's masks has slowly crumbled, not fully, but they were falling, and he would not let that happen to himself. He would not sacrifice a thriving career for that. More so, he would not let his endless facade go to a waste. He's already sacrificed to much and he would not lose anymore than he already has. He's lost his time, and his own identity, he would not gamble his heart in this game of popularity to. It was a lot easier then it seemed, but fright made many things complicated.

Alfred freezes for a moment before smiling the usual smile. It's a little more brighter this time, a little more practiced and a little more planned.

"Just a nickname."

 _Hesitation_.

Suddenly a mellow voice resonates within the room. Green eyes leave a piercing blue eye stare.

"Hello? Matthew Williams speaking?"

"Uh hey Matthew! It's Alfred here!" Alfred shares a look with his fellow comrades. One of condescending patience. Matthew was an important man. A man with a good head on his shoulders but although he had that, he also had flaws. He was to mellow, to soft both outside and inside. He did not intimidate the people who had to be intimidated. He did not intimidate the critics.

"Oh Alfred, hello! Oh Alfred, I heard about the competition that Wang has told me about, eh what can I say? You...you never really asked."

There is moment of silence and Alfred shares an alarming glance at Arthur. Not exactly knowing how to apologize without taking anything back. In fact, he hasn't apologized for anything in a long time. Arthur takes the hint and quickly intervenes although not exactly knowing how to solve the problem.

"Ah so...so you've... _heard_ …?"

The American tosses an exasperated expression at the Brit. Narrowing his eyes in the worst kind of surprise as he mutely claps, reeking of sarcasm and irritating sass.

Arthur simply throws his hands in the air, carefully trying not to create any sound. Afterall, static travelled far. His eyebrows etch into another frown the kind that say much more than his closed mouth does.

"Hello, Alfred you still there? Was that Arthur? Hello Arthur, as I was saying you guys haven't told me about the competition, and you all know I hate causing a ruckus. So once again I was fairly surprised when ehh Wang called last night telling me these sudden change of ehh..plans…"

"Uh right. I'm still here, oh hahahaha…" the laugh trails into nothingness and Ivan just watches the two. Casting patronizing and incredulous glares. Such fools. The way they stuttered made him want to laugh, how could they be afraid of such a man. Matthew Williams for vodka's sake. The person who did not have an opinion, or did not say one at least. The person who said sorry when firing an incompetent worker. The person who held too much mercy for his liking. And mercy was good in a way, mercy was good when you had the power to cut someone down. When they were scared and weak not when they were strong and standing. Matthew left a weak impression, and first impressions always mattered.

"Right Alfred. Anyway, what I'm getting at is the same thing I was trying to tell Wang the other day. I'm sorry but I don't like the idea and I am only glad that I will not be too much concerned in whatever this is."

Suddenly, Matthew seemed so much more rushed, as if he was at a loss for words and air.

"Eh...I just don't really like this idea, and it's really upsetting that you guys haven't informed me of this before hand, and you all know I really dislike being placed in the center of the spotlight."

"I know Matth-"

-And that Wang and I had quite a heated argument yesterday, mostly him insisting about the competition, and I had plans for you guys to release another album, and you guys are only second still…"

"Matthew list-"

"And, you know the 'AXIS' and other bands are growing closer to our sales, and, and, I j-"

His voice is cut off and only the sound of a beeping circuit is left. Ivan's hand gently placed on the red button that states that you would want to end a call. Everyone looks up at Ivan in horror, mostly the shock that he had the audacity to handle the boss's words so lightly. Ivan looks up slowly, a small rueful smile on his lips. His fingers leaving Alfred's phone, staining it with fingerprints.

"Ah, he was talking to much." He pulls away, dusting off his shoulders as if dust would sprinkle off. Carefully curling his fingers together when he's done.

Alfred and Arthur stare at each other for a while before sending a thoughtful nod at the Russian. The talk had gone a lot worse than they had planned. Matthew seemed incredibly upset if not disappointed and betrayed and they felt guilty because they were the ones who have committed the crime. But listening to there directors orders was no different then living a life of a jailor. Captured, confined, a person whose only view was the one within the cage. But there were people around them. Other people in other cages some knowing and some indifferent. Some people who loved the cage, loved the rules, and others who had no clue that the world was much bigger than the small space given. People who were smart, and people who played the fool.

"Well, now...now that that's done," Arthur laughs nervously his laughs turning into a brief coughing fit. "Well, that was certainly... _ **smashingly**_ well done."

Alfred nods, slowly sliding his phone back into his pockets. He ignores the slight vibrations his phone gives and the green light that alerts him of new messages.

"Matti- _Matthew_...haha he sure is, sure is, wow, he really _is_ pissed at us!" Alfred's mind works at incredible speeds, he skips forgotten thoughts often leading into broken phrases when he's shocked. He was shocked. Because only now was the consequences of following with this competition really setting in. Only now was he realizing how hard it would be to gain liberty. And liberty was a right everyone should have.

There is an incredible length of silence before Alfred speaks up. His mind trying to work out the procedures of work. What he had to do, what he had to finish, and what he had to accomplish.

"Well...I'm just assuming, but I think we should start practicing the song together, we can go to the music studio. In the afternoon, we should head to the dance studio and I'll start teaching you guys the dance."

"What about Yao?"

"Da. What about _Yao_?"

The American shrugs, his arms sluggishly hanging by his sides.

"We can just sing it while taping it, and then send him the vid. I mean, he could practice himself in his room when we're gone, he'll know his lines."

Ivan narrows his eyes skeptically, shaking his head, "Don't you think we should wait for Yao to feel better?"

Alfred pauses before shaking his head, "Well we can't wait forever! Exactly as you said, two day's Ivan. Two." He points along finger to the hallway behind him. "He has a choice Ivan. A choice to get up and work, or to stay confined in his bedroom, and eithers fine really, but that doesn't mean we have to be there to see him finally leave his room, see him finally sucking it up!"

Arthur frowns, not liking the hostility that the usually friendly American harboured. But it was true, and logic really did not change facts, and he needed Ivan to see it. He needed the Russian to see the logic, not to be blind of a silly chase. He coughs again, whispering heavy curses under his breath. This whole situation was ridiculous.

"And you know what, it is my fault, I know it is, I just...he just...I don't know what to do, I just really wish that none of it happened, and that he would just come out and act all normal. And maybe then I will apologize." The American glowers at Ivan. He stands tall although his expression seemed nothing but confident. Ivan stares back, trying to find what the American is trying to say, what he's trying to express. Was it regret? Was it genuine sorrow? Or was it just frustration at being delayed something that they all wanted?

The Russian closes his eyes. Staring blankly at the television screen. "Right. Da. I understand," he opens his eyes once again, pupils distant although nobody notices. "Let's get to it then right?"

Arthur carefully nods, hesitantly standing up and walking over to the house keys that sat woefully one the counters. Alfred following although he exchanges a remorsefully stare at the Russian who stood up stiffly behind him. He missed the warmth that he usually had beside him. He missed Yao, but not just that, he also missed the days where there group was less popular. When things were just for fun and not a job, not a contracted deal. When they were just humans finding there way through music, through the beat that at the moment were just verses of random words. When love was genuine, when warmth was given freely, when not everything was a fake on the front cover of a pop magazine.

"Yao?" Arthur calls out loudly. "We are leaving now. We'll be at the music studio all the way until the afternoon."

Alfred quickly interrupts. "I'm sorry Yao!" He swallows hard, mouth open although he didn't know what else to say.

"Get better soon Yao Yao," The Russian calls out the softest. A strange fondness on the tip of his tongue.

As the two leave the door and walk down to the nearest exit, Alfred quickly snips in. "See you there?" There's a pause, and he's almost certain that by now Yao could hear his voice. "I'll...I'll buy more pills on the way if I could."

That's when he hears the door bang open. The metal fringes colliding against the concrete wall. A small man comes out, his hand trying to button the last of his cuffs. Yao quickly marches out, his eyes looking rejuvenated of a good sleep and a good rest. Although the light was not fully there, it was enough to make the American smile.

"Y-Yao dude! You're _alive_!" Not knowing what to say he quickly approaches the man, examining him. He ignores the distant shouts that tell him to hurry up.

"Save it- aru, you talk so loud..," Yao holds his head up, rubbing soothing circles on his temple. "Anyone would wake up to that voice.." that horribly sorrowful voice. That voice that spoke volumes of regret that even Yao could not withstand. It reminded himself to much of the stat he was in right now.

Alfred stares in amazement, the little man dazzling him beyond comprehension.

He's not to sure how long he stares but suddenly those golden eyes are on him again. Impatience twitching on his annoyed eyebrows.

"Well, hurry up! They're waiting for us." Yao quickly rushes out of the duplex. Catching the eyes of a Russian who quickly starts to stride his way. Alfred quickly follows, leaving the complex and watching as the door locks itself. He watches as Ivan quickly walks to the two, seeing past the blond in entirety.

"I accept your apology." He hears loudly. He stares at Yao who cracks him a small smile. The kind that show him he's trying with every fiber of his body.

As Yao walks away with Ivan he hears a faint whisper, almost not catching it due to the cheerful chatter of the Russian.

"And save the pills. I don't want them."

There is not much to say as they walk together to a relieved looking Britain. So Alfred simply smiles.

The genuine kind.

 **How was it? Ehhh? There we go boss Matthew, wait a second, Arthur and the rest don't know Alfred's connection to Matthew?! His own brother?! See the plot's coming along now? What's up with the strange beginning? Will this happiness last for long? Heh, who knows right? If you look closely, I mean, very closely there's something else going on. Tell me, do you see it? Haha..,**


	8. Practice Makes Perfect- Chapter Eight

**The World's Stage**

Practice Makes Perfect

 **Chapter Eight**

For once everything was alright. It was not completely fine, but it was alright. A mediocrity that stemmed with the very progression of something better to come. A future where there was light, a future where together they could embrace all there crackled souls together, hoping that there missing fractures would fit into their star speckled hearts.

The walk to the music studio was long and tedious. The sun bathed the four in all it's glory, priding in it's unnecessary heat that stuck to their skin. The warmth only growing as heated glances were exchanged. But it was not simply exchanged, it was placed onto them, and they felt the eyes of the public view them as the walking display they were. Eyeing, judging, following them as they sauntered, their paces slow and degrading.

"Smile for the camera boy's, smile and wave," Alfred says through gritted teeth. He loved attention but he loved it when he was prepared. When he was wearing a planned outfit that envisioned a life of status. When he was walking on something other than the streets of Canada and more so on the never ending red carpet that rolled for him. No, for them, as they glamorously walked across, poses and smiles already practiced and planned. Because everything in front of the people was a mere act. A show that took years of improvisation and practice. Every little smile was deliberate, each wave stating a fact. The fact that they were there in the moment, not as singers but as actors, smiling even though they may be sad.

"Bloody hell, we shouldn't have rushed out…," Arthur retorts quickly, frowning ever so slightly before quickly replacing it with a sweet tentative smile. Turning to a crowd that had his name engraved on bristol. The three watch that transformation in awe before quickly putting on their own masks of pretense. The Britain has always been one of the fans most adored. Maybe it was purely based on his face, the green eyes that made girls swoon, and the slim yet strong build he had, or maybe it was his princely attitude that he displayed liberately for none other than his audience. He was a walking royal, waving and smiling silently to his own people. A prince. Maybe even a king.

"Da. We should of brought something, something to hide us from the people…," he mutters, before pulling at his scarf that lays lifeless on his shoulders. " _And_ the heat."

"You three are lucky- aru. Very, very lucky…" The three look at the Asian, raising one eyebrow before drawing a silent question. There pace slows and Yao shivers, eyeing the crowd with a look of heavy disdain.

"At least you do not have men ogling at your body," he stands closest to the crowd, next to the Russian who towers over him. He mentally detects the burning stares that roam his body, the stares that burn his flesh and make him flush in discomfort. His grimace deepened tremendously as he attempts to avoid the heated gazes that reflect nothing but malicious desires. Ivan tenses before tutting, hiding his discomfort under a strain of birdlike hums.

It was not always a problem. Yao's feminine body was something that could not quite compare to that of a ideal man. He was thin, although he had muscles they only defined his immaculate curves, treading carefully on his body cautiously not overdoing places that it should be overdone. He was a rarity amongst men, not a diamond but a beautiful rare ore. Different, and of a kind that none have seen before.

Suddenly a microphone is in their faces. There slow paces draining into a sudden halt, their breaths caught in their throats as a bombard of questions get thrown their way. Who called the paparazzi?

"The ALLIES, is it true that you are going to also participate in the 'Beautiful World' competition?"

A horrendously loud woman interrupts, her own recorder getting thrown at their faces and Arthur flinches. He felt small when the paparazzi were around, as if they were more than just reporters who indulged in gossips and rumors. As if they were more than just people waiting to capture the very epitome of a misshapen moment. And maybe they were more than that. Maybe they were just money hungry humans whose only chance was to create drama for a better living. Maybe they were just like them. Doing their jobs in a world that revolved around money and power. And if it was that, then he could not blame them. The world truly was not as free as one would think.

"Are those your real faces?" A woman asks, and Alfred tenses although you can see his toothy grin. Flashing his white teeth before winking at a passerby. He walks closer to the woman, standing an entire head taller.

"Are you implying that we're too hot to be real?"

The woman pauses for a moment and Alfred wonders if she sees how serious he's being. How strips of his mask is slowly peeling off in the most unsightly manner. How underneath lay the careless and deceitful man who has always hid in the shadows. The man who subconsciously came out on instinct not depending on the situation but on his short burning temper and will. At the same time he was flattered, flattered that people thought they were fake. And that was human instinct. When something was too great the mind concluded it was false, a glitch in a wonderful wonderland. But they were real. As real as the dying plants on the ground and the scorching heat. They would never implant plastic into themselves because that would ruin there radiance. After all, which one made the prettier diamond? The copy or the real? They were raw talent. He liked it that way. It had to be that way.

"Alfred! Now, didn't I tell you not to cause a commotion?" Arthur interrupts, gingerly placing a hand on his shoulder. His smile is warm and kind and some people amidst the crowd swoon, his grin widens but to the few of them it looks nothing but chilling. It was nothing but fake. A fraud stitched into a pure canvas. The way that his mouth twitched upwards not daring to fall as he gazed upon nothing in particular. It was like he did not truly 'see' even when he was staring rigidly at Alfred's face. Like his mask- his facade did not leave the least bit of realism within him. Like he was nothing but a perfectly drawn portrait speaking a code that made no sense to the group but made perfect sense for the audience. Like he was a walking statue. The embodiment of beautiful but made out of cold stone with a demeaning placid stare. For he didn't truly remember what happened when he was like this. Time flew to quickly and words from his mouth spewed out without hesitation. This version of him was not at all Arthur Kirkland but a man created from his insecurities. The man who was given life from the darkest corners of his own mind.

"R-right..," Alfred nods doubtfully, shifting his weight uncomfortably to shrug off the hand that gripped his shoulder painfully.

"I'm afraid we won't be answering that question- aru, 对不起*," Yao quickly walks forward his hand waving to a small girl. "Or any questions asked as of right now."

[对不起*: Sorry]

Most people stay, still eyeing them the same way as if not comprehending the groups forced cheer. Then Yao hears a scream, and then another. It's not peircing but more of a wail that came from an angry child. It continues, a string of shouting and hollering that makes him shiver in disgust. Repulsed that grown adults could act so immaturely.

"You can't do that!" A man shouts, his cries igniting a fire within the paparazzi's eyes.

"We live for this! To broadcast your lives, I was hoping for some big money today. I have a rent to pay!" A woman cries in anger.

"That's not fair! You rich brats. Just answer our goddamn questions!"

All four of them stare unfazed, although all of them hold an equal amount of surprise and disgust. Arthur huffs angrily changing his standing position as he remains silent. Waiting for the endless insults to end. If it doesn't die down then they have more things to worry about. Rumours and fake news that could be created within this standing comedy. He eyes the heightened recorders and microphones no longer feeling remorseful or afraid. There was no reason to feel afraid of miniscule bugs that spouted garbage as there fuel. He was used to it, yes, but the pain from every insult stung the same. It was just a matter of how he coped with it, and he did that by remaining cold, silent, that demeaning stare that held no mercy or remorse. He was unable to. He just couldn't.

"W-wait! Can you all just calm down!" Yao shouts, his calm already at it's peak. They had a job to do and nothing was more important than getting it done. A goal was meant to be reached not delayed.

"I said calm d-" suddenly his world seems to gravitate toward an angry man. The first to start this commotion. His shirt collar is getting crushed by the man's fist, his chubby fingers white in rage, and Yao realizes some of his buttons get undone.

"Listen, you brat. I have a job, and it's to report everything I know about you dumb schmucks, so get a grip around yourself and answer the damn questions!"

The next thing Yao knows, he's dancing between two pairs of arms, getting roughly yanked out of the man's rough hold before tripping into his teammates strong chest. His back colliding against a broad chest, he almost falls further but strong arms pull him up. Supporting him.

"I'd rather if you don't touch our teammate like that again, da?" Strong arms snake around Yao's torso, pulling him closer into a crushing grasp. Fingers dancing on his lower stomach. Amethyst eyes burning into a deep pewter.

"Ivan! S-stop this nonsense!" He looks up, using his arms to aware Alfred and Arthur of the situation. Both of them quickly try to coo the paparazzi to leave, and Yao watches as Alfred and Arthur instantly drop their acts. Their faces clear of all frustration that they may be feeling. And they should of done that ages ago, when things were getting bad.

Finally the arms that cradle him to close for comfort slump to the Russians side's, and the Asian breaths a sigh of relief. His cheeks flushed for no apparent reason, a remaining heat still radiating within his chest.

"Ivan! Are you insane?" He snaps accusingly, dusting off any remnant of the crushing hold.

"I only wanted to help, da, Yao Yao?" Ivan's cold exterior melts into a childlike pout. However, his violet eyes remains as cold and intimidating. Staring daggers at the quickly retreating figure in the crowd. And only for a moment does a fleeting question find its way in his mind. Why? Why should Ivan care so much? And why did his heartbeat seem to have an insatiable rhythm?

The older man sighs. Shaking his head like a terrible headache had hit him. His logical mind pushes the emotional and sensitive inquiries away. He just couldn't take it. Couldn't take the horrible effects emotions could create, to build a person so high only to let him fall. To hope only to see an endless demise. To put yourself first before the world as it's pressure breaks you like it does when you're not ready. He shakes his head again, forcing these useless thoughts out.

He was better than this.

"I- I know, but next time…" he stares at Ivan who does nothing but stare back. Something clearly different in his eyes then before. "Next time, try and assist the situation in a more professional way. No one benefits from rash behaviour Ivan. None."

The Russian nods before muttering a string of apologies. Arthur and Alfred quickly interrupting the scolding he was having. For once he was thankful as he was to dazed reliving the feel of Yao being close to him. Reliving how small Yao was and how perfectly he fit in between his arms. How if he intended to, he could crush him in his hold. A little man and a huge giant that loved him more than anything. And hopefully Yao could feel the difference he was treated with. How he was more than just a friend, a worker, a comrade, but a man that held so much control over him as much as he wanted to control and consume every thought that fleeted the Asians mind.

"Dudes, hurry. Paparazzi mad. Leaving. Fans giving opening to studio. Come. Thirsty. Hungry. Mother of-"

"Hurry up you bloody gits! The fans are subsiding, so it's in all our interests to hurry on our way." Arthur motions a less crowded exit, and the Asian and the Russian rushingly act on demand. Walking quickly out of the crowds way and into the tranquil streets of Toronto, where absolutely none could hurt them.

But malice spread fast, and rumours spread even faster.

There was no one waiting for them when they arrived at the music studio other than the silence and the empty hallways. Of course they were prepared and Alfred quickly finds the one key that fits the lock. The design of the music studio is different compared to the other, it was vibrant and colourful. Warm woods mixed into the burgundy walls that held DVD's of their first albums. Papers and awards that came from the years. However the number two stained each certificate like a disease. The delicate curve of the number looking awfully serpentine as it sat on a straight line. Marking the paper forever.

"No one's here?" Alfred calls out and the four roll there eyes in utter annoyance.

"Do you know he was gifted?" Arthur whispers under his breath as he lowers his stature to face Yao's ear. The Chinese man chuckles, and Ivan smirks condescendingly.

"Ahem! Still here! Plus, that doesn't matter, I'm gifted in _many other_ things," Alfred scratches the back of his neck before whistling. "Wow, it really is empty."

Ivan smiles gently, a fleeting smile before a frown as he stares at the DVD record of their first successful album. "I think we should just do it ourselves. No one needs to be there for it to work."

The Asian man steps up, nodding his head in eager agreement. "Right. We won't have anyone stopping us, or any potential pleas to convince us to change our minds. Heard the call with Matthew, he's pretty upset isn't he?- aru?"

Alfred nods and he feels his phone vibrate within his pocket. Another message.

He had to call back at one point. To apologize and maybe shed some light to a situation that was covered in shadows. As much as they wanted to be independent, they needed him. They needed a boss even if they weren't going to obey the man's wishes. They needed it for visuals sake. For the media.

"But what if we somehow, well, I don't know, _break_ and _damage_ the machinery during our frolicking?" Arthur quickly makes his point very clear. The American sighs before putting a firm hand on the man's shoulder.

"Then we'll just pay and buy new ones."

The British pinches his eyes shut before nodding. Convincing himself that it was as simple as that. His mind quickly moves onto a question that's been on him during the entire walk to the studio. He reopens his eyelids, the florescent lights blinding him momentarily.

"Hey, has anyone found out about the substantial loss of money in our shared account?"

Ivan pops up, turning his head around. "Do you mean the money that we lost a little over more than three months ago? The five million in US dollars?"

"Maybe it was the studio's fault- aru. I mean, they could use our shared account after all, maybe something needed fixing, or producers needed money to get the big stages working." Yao ponders for a while, before shaking his head in thought. A cloud of haze covered his eyes as he thought about everything other than the incredible loss. It was a tragedy yes, but to him it was a memory that was best left unrecovered. However it did recover a recent memory; pixels of blue and black. A single line dancing in his view. He exhales deeply before inhaling shakily. Suddenly wishing he had more painkillers.

"I don't know. Five million though? That's enough for a lifetime! And what microphone setting needs millions of dollars to fix? There's something fishy about it for sure, I...I just want to strangle the person who stole our money. First off, it's illegal to steal money within an account without permission from all the legal holders! We earned that money, no one, absolutely no one deserves to take it away from us."

His eyes darken and the Brit nods. "Somehow this problem was being disregarded by the higher ups. But yes, it is a problem. Remember when the same thing happened a year ago? When a couple mill' left and vanished? Absolutely untraceable?"

Ivan hums in consideration before sighing. "Isn't it best to just ignore this situation? I mean, it doesn't bother us nor does it affect us, da?"

"No. And it's not because I _love_ the idea of money, but someone's stealing our money. We've been robbed, and no one's batting an eye about it because it's true. We aren't short on money at all. No matter the loss."

Yao rolls his eyes. His eyes cold of whatever feeling he may be feeling. He hated when Alfred talked about money. It changed him. Just like it changed so many others. The way his eyes lit up, the way his mouth became the defendant of any side money was on. The way they talked big behind their words but the real objective was nothing but to retrieve anything of value and to chain it to oneself in complete ownership. Because money meant power and power was everything for certain people. He shivers, a man dancing in pink petals comes to his vision. Gently walking further into a blinding white before never coming back. Yes, money changed him, as did the power that came with it.

"Sounds like you are only doing this for the money," Yao mutters quietly, except not quietly enough for everyone to ignore the statement.

"Yao…" Ivan warns before placing a firm hold on the man. "Let's stop this can you?" His grip tightens urging him to stop the growing conflict. To burn it out as it lightens. Although a part of him knew it was true. Alfred loved money. He loved being rich and indulged in all its rare luxuries. The man indulged in the fame, but the money that came with it was what he desired. He remembers how Alfred first reacted to the situation months ago. How he threw a rampage, his eyes void of anything other than loss and rage. How he seemed like a piece of him was missing and convinced himself the police had to get involved, although Yao and Arthur told him better. It was best to keep these situations in a small number of people's eyes, and so they did. After all, time heals all wounds and soon it became a secret amongst the 'ALLIES', a simple probing question that constantly nagged within their hearts.

"Let's just get to the studio and start, da?" Ivan keeps his hand on the Eastern man's shoulder before leading him to a small black door. His fingers gently brushing the tips of Yao's ponytail. Gently, deliberately, every touch a chance for him to open the man's heart, and sooth his own. His heart that ached for a single response. A yes or no. But he knew the Chinese man was not as simple, and that was good. If he was, then what would be the point of the chase?

The door is black, a glass panel separating the hanging microphones to the centerpiece of operation. Colourful buttons cover the machines that they could see behind the glass, and Arthur quickly wipes at his neck of sweat and perspiration before gently opening the door that connected and intertwined the two rooms together.

"Just going to get the song on, give me a moment. Ivan, test the microphones please?"

Ivan nods, watching as the Brit nervously turns on a desktop that had multiple circuits connected to it's empty jacks.

"Testing...testing?" he says carefully, waiting for his voice to bounce off the walls of the compartment. It remains quiet and Alfred stifles a laugh, Yao smiling softly.

"They're probably not on yet. Arthur?"

There is a heavy sigh before a loud groan. " _Yes_ , Alfred?"

"Help with the micro-"

"Do it yourself."

Alfred rolls his eyes before chuckling softly, passing through the door smoothly. Ivan carefully watches his surroundings waiting for a change, and after an eternity a small flickering red light illuminates on the metal rods that hoist the four microphones. He repeats the same action he did minutes ago, his breath causing a vibrato of static that fills the closed space. He nods at the waiting American, giving him a relieved and relaxed smile. Silently inviting him to come back into their small cubicle. An annoyed sigh comes from behind the wall that separated the two groups and the American quickly leans over to the British man. Arthur backing away in a reddening spiral. Ivan turns his head to the side, eyeing the Asian man who icily glares at his mobile phone's screen. Yao's eyes send Ivan into a nostalgic dream, he remembers these eyes- he's seen them before. They were filled with a silent loath. No longer a hurt but a short compliance and acceptance buried underneath a heavy hate. Only once has he seen those golden eyes so filled with hate. Only once, and he admits that even this hate filled version of Yao amused and interested him.

"Ya-"

"The song's ready, quick _positions_!" Arthur scurries out and quickly stands in front of a microphone. Lips parting slightly. Alfred follows after taking the spot beside Arthur, putting on a pair of big earphones that silent the room around him. Yao slips his phone back into his pockets, his eyes a normal hue but the remainder of a small scowl taint his lips.

Everyone quickly assembles there headgear, covering their ears with soft tissue, and leaning into the sound absorbing microphone. Then they wait, until finally a growing beat leaks into their eardrums. Everyone looks at Arthur as he start's the growing melody and then, in a quiet room filled with nothing but static,

there is _music_.

" _ **Kaji ga moeru to, aru hi ga kuru deshou"**_

 **[One day will come when the fire burns,]**

His voice is soft, delicate, getting accustomed to the lyrics and the familiarity of the rhythm.

Ivan takes a breath before continuing, _**"Hana ga kareta hi,"**_

 **[A day when the flowers wither,]**

The beat grows, getting stronger; the sound of a dramatic piano plays quickly. Rushing notes trying to fill the silence of an empty chord. The American remains serious, opening his mouth when his part comes to play.

" _ **Watashitachi ga taizai suru igai ni sentakushi ga nai hi,"**_

 **[A day when we have no choice but to stay,]**

Yao flushes when everyone looks at him, silent smiles encouraging him and cheering him on. So he musters his voice and in one empowering sentence he sings, " _ **Shikashi, sonohi wa, NOT TODAY"**_

 **[But that day is, not today.]**

Practice remained neutral. Although it was filled with glimmers of laughter and precious teases. It was when all four of them stood on neutral grounds, when all their masks drifted off and all that remained was pure music and the sound of static. They memorized their lines with doubtful smiles and when they were finally finished, only the thought of how suddenly a ray of hope had become bigger crossed their minds. The misery reduced to a small portion that only became a cautionary. When they were done practicing the lyrical part, it was by far past dinner and although their stomachs decided against it they silently trudged to the dance studio, calloused finger tips and toes apparent as they danced.

The next day has been the same thing. A stressful amount of work and sweat as they practiced singing while fervently moving their bodies. And when they were done with that, they welcomed the warm beds with shut eyes. Tired expressions leaving them as they fell into a dreamless slumber.

 _Except one._

* * *

It was quiet within the room, the only sound being the quick click of fingernails touching a blurred screen. The sound of a whimper before a rapid breath, and then he let the phone drop from his hands and the world grew black as sleep invited him.

What remained of sound was only the silent vibrate of mail sending to a unknown server. A preview of the email sent opens up on the screen. A single line looks back at the pale ceiling, mockingly, dangerously.

Life was tough when you had to make bad decisions, this was exactly it.

 _I accept._

* * *

 **HOLD UP. I HAVE A MESSAGE FOR A CERTAIN 'GUEST'**

 **Are you okay? Are you hurt? I've been craving your opinion the previous chapter, but it didn't come. I know, I sound like I'm being awfully greedy and selfish aren't I? But to be completely honest they're only for your reviews. Your reviews are amazingly long and so detailed and you've been my first reviewer with my fanfiction, and have been my favorite read. I mean it when I say this, your reviews are the first thing I check when submitting a chapter. Hope to hear your opinion soon!**

 **Okay, does anyone infer anything? What's up with the strange email foreshadowing? What's up with Yao being suspiciously hateful while staring at his phone screen? Yao seems to have transformed his hurt into hate? Who is the man that seems to cross his mind? Tell me, how do you think the small fluff I wrote for Ivan and Yao was...horrible, I know.**

 **How would you guys feel if I killed someone off?**

 **Plot UNLEASHED! Prepare to read the real plot of this story. Remember, everyone has their secrets, may as well guess which one belongs to who! Hehe!**


	9. Secret's- Chapter Nine

The World's Stage

 **Secret's**

Chapter Nine

 **PLEASE READ:**

 **Before I start, I want to explain the lyrics in the previous chapter in a condensed paragraph. As you can see the lyrics continue with something like, "No not today, _" well, with these lyrics (written by Yao) I wanted to capture how Yao believes that at one point if not sooner than later, there group will dissolve or conflict will come. Just not...today. Yao is trying to voice out how he believes and hopes, but he knows that all good things come to an end. He's simply saying that "although we will crumble and fall with time, today is not the day we will". Although the lyrics sound dreadful, it's incredibly realistic and I thought suited Yao's realistic point of view.**

 **Feeling the need to say this again, Yao is a complicated character. He has charisma and character and I dislike hiding it under the original personality that came with him. Yes, he's cute in the original, but I wanted to somehow amplify the reality and modern setting the story takes place in. No one in this modern world could be as carefree, lighthearted as Yao. Even Alfred. Yao is China. And China is one of the biggest and strongest global powers in the world, I need to SHOW that somehow, and not defringe it under a complete cute male persona. In this world Yao is dangerous. He's serious, quiet, and mature. He's a threat who struggles with personal issues just like any human being. He's on the top of the entertainment industry and he needs to be strong. He's faced a realistic betrayal and the scar on his back doesn't exist, but is replaced with a mental scar that marks him forever. However, through that thick stubbornness, he's also an airhead and when worried he could be a complete idiot.**

 **Since I'm doing this with Yao, I might as well explain everyone.**

 **Alfred. Alfred is probably the man I changed the least. He's aloof, funny, laid back, but I wanted to ingrain a seed of dangerous seriousness in him. He loves money, and he loves being the dominant in power. Most of all, he loves the attention he gets, and that may be the only reason he continues with his job. However, underneath that all, he genuinely worries and stresses a lot about certain things. He has a phobia of time due to the fact that he knows that the spotlight on him may only be momentarily, and could leave him at any time. (He hates that lack of control). Overall, he's the man who has a lot more seriousness and dread within him then one would think. Alfred's America. There's a reason why people respect him.**

 **Arthur. Oh Arthur, always coughing isn't he? Haha. Arthur, he's the man who genuinely dislikes people. Rather, I stem this on his introverted and rueful humour. And due to that, I've created him to be a man who has a alternative 'face'. The man whose exactly like him except perfect, and he desires everyone to see him like this. However, he also detests himself for that and greatly wishes that he could simply be himself around people. He's logical, almost as cold hearted as Yao, but what differentiates him from Yao is that he so calls, 'loses control'. As proven in the chapter where he rushes to defend his friend, he believes the act of kindness was more of a clumsy fault rather then a good deed. He's a kind man at heart. A man who felt what it was like to be helpless therefore blocks himself from ever doing anything that may lead him feeling that again. Such as, love.**

 **Ivan. He's twisted. Ivan Braginski had already a two face personality in the original version of him. But in this version of him he's a strong mixture of both. His playful side is removed and what lays is a taunting, naive, childish side that sits within him. He's selfish, and is a lot like Alfred. He wants what he wants, and in all means he will get it. By force or not. However, he's also mysterious, he doesn't allow a connection that comes from outsiders. No, only he can in force that, and well, to put it bluntly I wanted to make him a hopeless romantic. The kind of man who falls for the brightest star, the man who loves strong things and cherishes the weak side to. He's a lot like Alfred in this aspect,** **he thinks a lot behind his mask of indifference, but through it all he means well. He would never want to hurt anybody, and his greatest wish is to simply be accepted by the people he accepts. (You get me?)**

 **DONE RANT SORRY**

* * *

The first wisp of scented air was all Arthur needed to wake up. It smelt of strong coffee and his tired nerves jolted as the caffeine elucidated the feeling of awareness. He yawns, opening the blinds before running a calloused finger in his hair, letting the messy tendrils curl momentarily on his finger. Slowly he pulls his fingers away, scratching his neck as he kicks opens the wooden door that remained open throughout the night. His body feels heavy, as if somehow the sweat that remained on his body was replaced with a massive weight that chained him to the ground with newfound aggression. His steps are slow and he once again inhales the highly intoxicating smell of cocoa beans. The soft touch of vanilla doesn't lay hidden and only amplifies the effect it does on him. It makes his head spin in confusion. Why **_coffee_**? Cautiously, he makes his way to the kitchen. The morning ray's stinging his eyelids as he presses them close, opening them to the sound of a fleeting giggle.

" _Yao_?" he quickly whispers, his voice raspy from repeating lyrics over and over until they were burned into his memory. His body slowly leans against the corner that rounded the bend connecting to the kitchen. Glimpse of ebony and ivory strands dance in his vision. The soft sound of breathing and murmurs reach his ears through his fatigue.

"Ya-" He says louder than the last before quickly shutting his mouth. Yao laughs although the sound falls mute as it transfers into the Britain's ears. His eyes trail to the Russian who lurks beside him, shoulder to shoulder as he whispers something that causes the Asian man's face to rile up in glee. Although it looked fresh, the sound of laughter quickly fell and soon a face of deep despair crosses the man's face, the heavy weight of a short recovery still obvious.

It was beautiful. It was _cruel_ , and he found himself loathing his own mind that subdued thoughts of a sweet romance. The haunting memory of blue eyes penetrate deeper into him then anything, and he watches the two unfold in there short happiness. It was disappointing almost. Disappointing how such strong men could crumble within the pinnacle of love. He frowns as he sees the genuine livid emotion that sparked within the lilac eyes. As they passionately stole glimpses of the man's back, as he carefully touched the man almost as if he was created out of china and would break if pushed too far. And Yao would. In this state he would. In this time he would. He was indeed like a china doll, if grabbed onto too hard he would shatter and leave a horrible gash within the holder's hand. A reminder that the holder has failed to capture the heart of the petit china mannequin.

Suddenly he feels violet eyes pierce his own. Ivan's face deflated of any emotion. Simply a stare that burns and brittle's from within. Arthur casts one of his own indifferent glares, getting distracted by Yao's back turned to him. However, slowly his eyes reach cool amethyst again, and they look different this time. They looked _endearing_. A stare that begged for him to leave before the Asian once again turned around. It spoke volumes of an interrupted happiness, begging him to leave, asking him if he would really kill his momentary joy. Would he? Some part of him tells him he shouldn't. This part of him pushes him to leave, to pretend he never saw the fond glances and fleeting touches. This part of him believes and hallucinates. Putting himself into one of those silly moments. Moments of joy and love. And that part of him almost wins, almost. But his logic wages a stronger fight against his heart just like Yao's, and his stare becomes one of uncrushable pity. The love is only one-sided, and Ivan once again remains deftly still and stiff. He didn't care. No, he chose not to care and with that he cast his best smile, making the Russian frown in utter disappointment.

And for a moment he was disappointed in himself as well, disappointed that he couldn't swallow his sick pride, couldn't allow his sweltering jealousy to pass and let the two unfold in there short blissful moment. But what could he do? Did he really have a choice? A dark thought reprimands him, he always had a choice. He just never took the right one.

"Yao! Coffee this time?" His voice rings within the eerie room, and the Asian man quickly turns around almost tripping at the close proximity of the Russian. His face reddens before he looks at the Brit.

"Arthur! I didn't see you there, I apologize," he pauses before frowning, "No, I didn't brew this coffee, Ivan did. He believes that it will caffeinate me more than tea." the man rolls his eyes before smiling. The kind that left him looking relaxed and rekindled.

"I'm not wrong am I?" Ivan laughs coldly before throwing a glance at Arthur, it's cold and rivals the snow in Russia. It felt of a mouthful of blood chilling ice and witty blades of harsh wind that seemed to seep into his body. He was as cold as he looked and Arthur grins ruefully.

"Right. Well, the auditions are today…" Arthur trails and narrows his eyes, searching the room for baby blue eyes. He raises his eyebrows, one arched while the other sat closer to his eyelid.

Yao follows his pupils before shaking his head. "Alfred's still in his room. Perhaps the intense training yesterday really tired him?"

Arthur snickers before shaking his head doubtfully, "I _highly_ doubt it. I'll go check on him." He walks slowly never leaving the deep pewter eyes that stare at him with a strange level of intensity. He pauses before smiling again, his eyes half closed lazily.

"Oh and Yao? Tea for me please, I really just hate the sight of coffee." with that he left, shaking his head as his small chuckles filled the hallways. He was only teasing although he admits that he teased the wrong man at the wrong time. Ivan was distant compared to the others, he held onto his mysteriousness as a flag of superiority. Only then did he realize he knew nothing about the other. He knew the little things, he knew he hated the cold, and he had an obsession with sunflowers. He knew he wore scarfs that protected him from an imaginary cold, and that he may even _love_ Yao. He knew these things but those were the things that the Russian made known. These were the things Ivan _let_ himself show to the world. The things that he _wanted_ them to see. The box of information that contained nothing more then a few phrases about his love for sunflowers. The small wrapped box he gave to everyone. Even Yao fell condemned to this small asset.

He reaches the door to the Americans resting place and knocks quietly. "Alfred?"

There's no sound and for a moment he could only hear a muffled sound.

"It's me…" he chooses his words carefully. "Arthur. It's me."

He waits for a second before sighing. "Bloody git...I'm coming in alright? Don't _scream_ or anything..."

Arthur grumbles as he pulls open the door, immediately stepping over the large piles of clothes left on the ground. Expensive brands on the ground lay effortlessly despite the huge numbers on their tags. For a moment he doesn't see the man who lays surrounded in bundles of blankets, wrapping them around him until he's nothing more than a sack of lifeless fabrics.

"Alfred?" He kicks a large sock out of his way before sighing as the bundle moves slightly. He pushes it slightly to the side, watching as straw coloured strands of hair get exposed to the light, creating a deep vibrant gold. Blue eyes meet his own and for a strange moment he feels his maternal instincts kick in. The regret of ever being rude to the American chewed on his heart.

"Arthur…" The small round face exposed says, and Arthur watches Alfred pout childishly, noticing how he's slowly biting his lips. Chewing his lip slowly, deliberately. His face is hued red, and Arthur notes how he's actually nervous. He may not know a lot about Ivan but he did know a lot about Alfred. He knew the little things- the ones he found were important, he knew how he took his coffee, he knew how he chewed on his lips and cheek when he was nervous, he knew how he dreamt of an ideal romance filled with pretty girls and money. He knew how his smile always seemed a little tilted to the right, and he knew how behind his left ear held a minuscule mole. He knew all these things and yet there connection has always been an emotional rollercoaster. They had there ups and there downs, maybe more downs then ups. But all the fights they had together created there beautiful harmonization. They're functionality together, they knew what the other hated, liked, and loved. They couldn't be more perfect yet more flawed.

"Arthur you look...so dumb from down here" The high voice stats, causing him to blink out of his thoughts.

"Why you little…" he starts,

A sudden sharp laugh erupts from the bundle and Arthur stares, his eyes wide in surprise. Stopping his sentence abruptly he narrows his eyes, muttering a string of silent curses.

"Haha, oh Arthur, you always find a way to make my day…" Alfred chuckles before growing serious, the biting on his lip continues, and the British man sits in the silence, for some reason he finds the eerie room comforting and he takes the time to watch the light reflect off of the Americans hair.

"Arthur?"

"Hm?" He whispers softly, edging his fingers closer to the gold strands. _Almost_ ….

Suddenly Alfred thrusts himself out of the blankets, they land promptly on the ground, joining the heap of forgotten riches.

"I don't feel too well…" Alfred chokes up between biting his lips. "Not physically, just... I feel pent up emotionally for some strange reason. Not cool right?" He speaks quickly, spewing out his feelings at such a fast pace it was almost overwhelming.

Arthur stares at the American in mild surprise, eyes wide, and to his own surprise he smiles. A fond smile that seemed to appear by instinct. It felt almost as if he was talking to a young fan, slow, gently, and tantalizing but he knew it was different. He wasn't perfect in Alfred's eyes. Nor was it the other way around.

His mind flicks back to the ranting American, watching him pout in unease and sadness.

He understood the feeling. He sympathized a lot, however he knew the emotions that ran through him were different then the Americans. Alfred was nervous. Scared. Insecure. While his own held more negative affects. His was regret, guilt, worry. The emotion that ebbed away at your heart, gnawing it of emotion and chewing off the bits that mattered. The emotion that filled every crevice and cranny with a deep, dark despair. The kind that made him eat on his insecurities, the emotion that was the pinnacle of his fake mirage.

"Don't worry." He whispers softly only for the American to hear and he surprises the other by softly running his fingers through his hair. His fingers taking in the time to feel the fluffiness of the smooth curls.

For a moment everything is quiet but it is soon interrupted by a fit of small coughs, and only then does Alfred blink in awareness.

"W-what are you doing?! You don't even know what I'm talking about!" Alfred protests, although he doesn't move away. Suddenly, his body is shoved against the Brit's chest and he yelps in surprise. Arms already trying to push out of the tight grasp.

"Arthur!-"

"It will be alright Alfred. We'll get through this together. We'll all be fine, promise."

Arthur tightens his grip, hugging him like how a parent would do to a terrified child. Only then does Alfred know that Arthur did indeed understand what he was going through. He felt the wave of solemn understanding that only a real victim could procure. He was scared. Unsure of what to come during and after the competition and that terrified him. He couldn't see a way to predict what was to come. To secure his team's success. He couldn't be a hero.

Not the hero in the magazines or the commercials, but the hero for his _team_. The backbone of every lyric sung with passion and intensity. The person who directed while everyone created the plans. He needed to be that leader. Not for him but his team.

So in that moment he let himself get gently chided like a child, he let himself get cradled like a small boy, and let his hair get gently patted on. Yet through it all, he couldn't shake the feeling that the sudden affection wasn't just due to his own distraught.

And did it bother him?

Of course not.

* * *

"Right. So remember, left, right, right, left, left, half turn."

"We **_go_** t it Alfred, aru!"

"Da, _da_ , **_da_** …"

"One more time and I'll _slit_ your damned tongue."

Yao rolls his eyes searching for his phone in his pockets. A small bickering fight already commencing between the two dark blondes.

"Do you guys know where my…," he quickly empties out his pocket a look of worry crossing his features. Only empty candy wrappers touch his probing fingertips. "Where my phone is?"

The others all shake their head in turn, while Ivan remains silent. His memory brings himself to the music studio, to how he caught Yao in the act of staring murderously at his phone. His eyes narrow in suspicion. What was his little Yao Yao hiding?

"Do not worry Yao, you don't need the phone at this instance, da? Simply rely on our devices, _da_?" He say's, prying the other to stare and meet his gaze. His eyes searching for what truly was wrong.

The Asian man freezes, a petrified look taking over his features. "Right. Right. _Right_." He stops for a while and Ivan sees how he's trying to convince himself that everything is alright. How a flicker of worry remains in his eyes as the Chinese man continues fidgeting with his hair. His golden eyes glistening and burning intensely into a shade of deep ember. The Russian smiles, a hard look in his eyes, did he smell a _secret_?

"Let's go guy's! We have an audition to make!" Alfred exclaims, already parading to the side of the door. Keys in hand as he swirls them on his finger, ignoring the indifferent stare he receives from a partially cold looking pair of emerald eyes.

"Right, right, right...you guys go on ahead-aru...I need to find my...phone." A transfixed mask of worry gets cast on his face and the two blondes only cast a strange glance. They didn't understand the worry, and for once they agreed with the Russian. They didn't have time. And no cell phone or friend could replace the rushing adrenaline that plummeted them to run to the very auditions. For a moment they were frustrated even. The feeling of a bubbling frustration reaching their heads, and only a pained past told them to press their lips shut. Shutting their nasty remarks as a way to prove that they have learnt from the scars of a bitter mistake.

"Alright…" Alfred says softly, grumbling as he rubbed the short hairs on his neck. He could see Arthur muttering a string of soft curses, grumbling words such as, 'tardiness' and the act of preparation. "Then...We'll just leave now. You know the way?"

Yao disregards the concern blankly, his hands already waving at them as a strained smile twists his lips into a bleak distracted curve. "Yes, yes, yes…"

Alfred and Arthur once again share a glance, there eyes holding the message that doesn't transfer through words. It was almost heartwarming despite the situation. It just showed how well they understood each other.

"Well then, we'll get going. Ivan?" Arthur says plainly, sparing a glance at the silent Russian. Ivan returns it in an aggressive glare, clearly still upset over what happened earlier. However he quickly nods, stiffly rubbing off dust motes on his shirt. Arthur realizes that that's another useless thing that Ivan did when nervous or agitated. He swiped at his shoulders pretending to wipe off the invisible negative emotions that he may be feeling. As if it could magically infuse within the dust that actually flies off.

The three make their way to the door, all of them glancing casually back at the Asian man who's already burying his head in the lavish drawers of the kitchen. As if his phone would be there.

"Bye...Yao?" Alfred says quizzically, his back arching as he watches the man flip open a pot's metal lid. A languid sigh all that comes from him.

Arthur simply shakes his head, shrugging. He's seen worst absurd things in his life.

The door shuts behind them quietly, and almost immediately does Yao stop flipping through old kettles and woks. His eyes regaining the seriousness that never left but stayed hidden within his worried orbs. His strained smile already nothing but a grim line. He had things to do.

He walks to his room, yanking the door so hard that it hits the wall in a loud eruption. His feet creating a irregular beat that sounds both dreadful and adrenaline pumping.

He wasn't stupid no, he was brilliant, and he knew that. What was better was that he used his brilliance as a motive to get things done. Good or not. Evil or pure, he used it and it always worked. Always. Most of the time. Not this time.

He frowns in disgust as he recovers his phone where he remembers it. It's exactly where he last left it in a exhausted wake. On the floor, facing the ceiling battery almost dead due to it being left on for the entire night.

He faces it, kneeling to the ground to pick it up. The only emotion in his eyes is the bleak overdrive of panic and worry. Cold sweat starting to form on his forehead. Why has it come to this?

He could break his phone. He could. And he could risk letting all his own sins slowly crawl and make there way underneath the sizzling light. He could call his family to pack up, to leave and move forever. Hidden away so no news man or reporter could find them. He could do so many things and yet he knew the man on the other side was playing this game with him because he knew he would win. And he has. He's already moved his chess pieces in a formation that already left him breathless and cornered. And unless he truly wanted his secrets to come out he would have to sacrifice something of greater importance; his dignity. That was his only move available. He frowns, what was better, surrendering or dying?

He slowly walks back to the TV room, his heart hammering in his chest. The remainder 4% wouldn't take him far even if he left with the others, he slowly taps in his password, it being a ridiculously long code of underscores and numbers.

His heart seems to stop when a voiceless conversation pops up on his screen, a string of chats with only three messages. He shivers, thankfully there were no more.

Slowly and hesitantly his finger hovers over the button that tells him if he wanted to trash the emails. His breath shallows reminding himself he had to act accordingly. He had to act smart. So he doesn't. He pulls his fingers away slowly, his finger twitching as if it had a mind of his own. This was proof. Evidence. Even if it was against himself. Even if when the time came, it would only prove how he was in the wrong.

"What are you reading _Yao Yao_?" A wisp of breath tickles his neck.

He turns around, swiftly and agile, facing Ivan's face that is a mere centimeters away. He drops his phone in the process the sound of metal touching wood creates an eerie echo that sings out.

"I-Ivan?!" He squeaks, face red in not embarrassment but shame. Smiling, Ivan nods at the sound of his name, one eyebrow slightly raised as he slowly bends down to pick up the phone. Yao closes his eyes, trying to press the anxiousness away. The screen faces the ceiling still blinking rather vividly.

 _Please don't read i_ t, he thinks. His eyes mortified and his lips trembling. But Ivan doesn't, and he picks up the phone without leaving his fear stricken eyes. A small smile still plays on his lips but it's a little more serious this time. A little more meaningful and all the more tantalizing. He knew this kind of smile, it meant business.

"T-thanks" he says, trying to calm down before quickly snatching his phone back, shoving it deep into his pockets. His nails digging into his flesh almost drawing blood as he clenches his two hands in fists.

"What are you doing…" he trails, examining the Russian's face, trying to identify the meaning behind the twinkle in his eyes, and the cold smile. "...back?"

The Northerner doesn't blink when he answers, and the Eastern man takes the time to turn away, quickly walking to the door that leads to the outside world.

Ivan remains where he is, standing back straight with eyes still deep and penetrating. "To help you find your phone da? But it seems that I'm to late." The man shakes his head sorrowfully, an extreme pity crossing his features.

Yao nods slowly, hoping that he wouldn't need to converse any further. He slips his shaking fingers onto the door handle latching onto them before he feels the familiar strong pull yank him back, his eyes flashing in surprise while he screams in shock. His arms instinctively try to claw at the door handle, he kicks and yells mild profanity.

"Ivan!" He gasps, panting as if he was tired, "What are you doing! Get _off_ me!" He yelps in surprise as he is suddenly pressed into the mans chest, the scent of salty sunflower seeds and lavender reach his nose. "Iv-"

"What are you hiding from me?" The voice that was once bubbly is lowered into a unrecognizable pitch. Was he always like this? So grown, so strong? He remembers when they first met. Ivan was so innocent and naive, to scared to get too deep into conflict. He was a learner, a follower. Since when has things changed? Then again, time had the effect to change people. Like himself, when has he been so dishonest?

His face betrayals nothing while his insides scream. He knew. Ivan knew. Well, Ivan didn't know what it was but he knew that something was off, and that was the beginning of knowing anything. His heart lurches. The only thing that brings him back as his own heart, pounding like it was the last time. Trying to overcome this paralyzing fear.

"I'm not hiding anything from you Ivan." That's right, he was hiding it from everyone.

The hold only tightens, crushing him whole like the entire email to begin with.

"Do not lie to me Yao Yao, I know you long enough to know that you are indeed," he whispers the next part slowly. "hiding... _something_."

Yao shivers again, wanting to claw out of the mans grasp but instead lay's limp in his hold. His eyes narrow to slits, and his voice is so cold. So, so, _so_ cold.

"And I know you long to know that you won't force me to tell you the truth" he finally pulls out of the grasp not meeting Ivan's face. He was such a weakling. "Aren't I right, Ivan?"

The Russian just smiles. Sadness in his eyes even though his voice hints nothing. "Indeed."

Yao dusts off his clothes, now sprinting to the door before looking back. "I do not know much about you either Ivan, so let's call this fair play, hm?" He pulls the latch open, his feet already outside the complex. His face half in the shadows and the other covered with light. Just like himself in reality. A figure flickering between the past, the present, and the horrible future that has yet to come.

Ivan remains breathless, before smiling again, only a lonely look adorns his face.

"I'm sure one day you will."

The Chinese man pauses before once again looking grieved in sadness and guilt. No longer staring at the man any longer then he could. He couldn't bear it. Those eyes that stare at him so deeply. That crushing hold and broken but strong voice that gave him a chance to tell the truth. What hurts him the most was that he didn't. He didn't make the right choice. He lied.

"Then I'll tell you the truth on that day, promise." With that he closes the door behind him, leaving the complex and locking Ivan in a air of untamed suspicion.

It's quiet, and Ivan simply stares at the spot in front of him, imagining how close Yao was despite the distance in the present.

"How cruel Yao, even though I love you so much." He whispers before smiling one of equal cruelty.

He would never tell Yao about his past, and Yao knew. His promise was empty but Ivan's hope wasn't.

People could change every once and a while, and unlike what Yao thought, he was only the more intrigued.

What could he say?

He loved secrets, more so finding out the truth.

* * *

 **Oh my god! Finally, you've responded I'm so relieved to see that you're doing better. Although I admit, that the thought of you being sick crossed my mind. And even if you were sick you still tried to review? I'm ever so honored. Thank you for the wonderful reviews, I've been waiting for it, and I knew that at one point it had to come! You're just so dedicated, and it's shown in every review you give me! Ahh, I'm glad you caught on to many thing's during the previous two chapters. That's right, Alfred doesn't want people to know about his relation with Mattie! Why? Haha, who knows? Maybe there's more to it then you know! Thank you, thank you, thank you! Get well soon! I hope this chapter was satisfactory, the next will be the auditions for sure! Yes, your quite right when you wondered about the mysterious emails that have been popping up through the chapters. You're ever so clever, haha! Then again, what did I expect from my favourite reviewer and follower!**

 **Get well soon. You absolutely must.**

* * *

 **(I'm sorry guy's, I know the drag to auditions are long but remember, I need to solve multiple conflicts and this chapter was drawing quite long. Don't understand the character's? Read the very beginning of this chapter! Go!~)**


	10. Auditions- Chapter Ten

**The World's Stage**

Auditions

 **Chapter Ten**

 **Would you rather die or be unwound?**

* * *

 _He was flying, perhaps, or simply voyaging the depths of time as it unraveled around him. He's been here before, he's seen this place. He knows everything that will happen, he knows what he will see, because he's traveled here before, either by dream or by nightmare. These were his memories. And just like always he finds himself getting slowly absorbed into a time frame he neither desires or wants to see. The burning and the ache of his heart the source of this very memory. And then, slowly, his eyes close and he gets drawn to yet another nostalgic inception._

" _ **Nii-san, have you ever desired for more then what you have?"**_

 _He wakes up._

 _Relief already sweeping into every pore on his body. Right, all of that was a dream. Kiku would never abandon him like that. He would never. Kiku's still here...These were the mind tricks. The trickery that the vivid back splash of a wooden house did to him. And even with this knowledge he chooses to reject it, his mind flickering between the truth and the dream. His conscious fighting the winning fantasy that conjures in his head._

 _He looks up, hoping to see the smiling face of the man he knew too well, but the face in front of him is foggy, visually unappealing, and he blinks, thinking it's his poor eyes that are unable to register the man in front of him. Fear absorbs every fiber of his body, he blinks again, pressing his eyelids shut before prying them open. Everything is slow in this time; the water seems too still as the ripples disappear only to reveal a blanked reflection. But even the reflection is hazy, and it remains like a sheet of plastic instead of fine glass. The warm air seems to reach him where the cold doesn't but he knows it's coming. He knows all about this place and how it's fake. How his existence only exists in the real world, where Kiku is not the kind and loving boy he raised. And that's what makes this timeline disappear in a swirl of pink and lavender, small petals that vanish into even smaller thin strands, evaporating as his eyesight leaves him in a clueless yet anticipating heap._

 _It seems like he's in yet another nightmare._

" _ **You are so naïve, Yao-san."**_

 _He wakes up again, except this time he's gasping in pain. Shaking amongst the ground, as his hair cascades downward making an illusion of black swirls. What was this sensation? He looks at his balled hands only to find an accounting pamphlet. The dangerous line of zeroes makes his eyes turn wide. He looks up from his knees but this time he can only see a smile. His smile. His_ _ **horrible**_ _ **tainted**_ _smile. And with this smile Yao already knows that everything is over. This is the mere pinnacle of misery that started a hurt that would last a millennial._

 _There are no words exchanged other than the smile that stares at him. Innocence gone and what was replaced was a crazed smile that left him feeling cold, betrayed, and raged. This was the moment his heart changed. He remembers the days of a happy family, the ignorance and the naivety that seemed to long ago to deem a dream or a memory. He reaches forward clawing at the man standing atop of him, his face streaked with tears, his relentless and dying hope smothered when his hands reach nothing but the filth beneath him. Finally, the form leering on top of him leaves, footsteps walking toward the distance. Feet crashing a bed of pink and magenta, it's pigment matching the red of his cheeks and the blood that courses his body._

 _And only then does he scream._

* * *

" _Yao?"_

" _Yao."_

" _ **Yao!"**_

He jolts awake, cold sweat on his forehead and by instinct looks around. Watching as blank white walls surround him in all their unsightliness. He blinks twice, now facing the man who awoke him. A British accent, a hazy blob of blond and emerald moves in front of him.

"Arthur."

This was indeed the real world. He finds himself seated on a rather ornate waiting chair, the memories of the most recent events crash onto him. That's right, they were waiting to audition. How could he have possibly forgotten? His fingertips dig into the leather that adorns the chair, leaving short deep engraved lines. A nightmare, just a nightmare. His mind blocks off everything that resorts to the thoughts of that cold smile, that invisible gaze, those hidden hints of a cruel corruption that he never saw before. He cuts them off in hopes of losing them entirely, like a cut strand of hair that held too much weight than not. And with that mindset he narrows his eyes, allowing his heart beat to rest. Each heavy beat hammers inside of his ribcage, the thumping grounds him to this thin reality a little bit more. This thin reality that seems to hurt him more than his nightmares. Because reality was cruel and real. Reality was _real_ , and that worse than any nightmare entirely.

"Enjoyed your nap?" Arthur asks, surprised to see the other in such an anxious state. He coughs as he waits for an answer.

"Yes…" In Yao's hesitation, he found his answer. "I had a _fine_ rest." Yao shakes his head annoyed, nonsense talk. He stretches, arching his back while staring woefully at the clock, it's right hand still placed where it was ten minutes ago. "Is it time to head in yet?"

Arthur nods, although his eyes look remorseful. The ghost of a worried expression barely makes it onto his face before vanishing. Simply a mirage that Yao could barely catch. "Just realized the bloody _frog_ and his group's in there." He shakes his head, clenching his teeth before exhaling. Yao eyes widen before frowning. He was doing that more often now, he needed to stop before it left wrinkles.

"You mean _Francis_?"

Arthur groans before nodding, his head hurting at the very thought of the French man. His eyes shroud in a cloud of uneven emotion. That's right, _Francis_. The man who once took place in his life, as a reliever, a short muse. The man who spoke of romance and passion as an entirely new dialogue. The man who he went to on the days where sunlight was not gracing his features. The man who he loved, and was loved back. And yet he was the same man who left, the same man who left the unsightly smell of cigarettes in his room, and the same man who taught him a valuable lesson. Love was not worth the pain.

Yao straightens his back before quickly giving the British man an encouraging smile. Whether or not it reaches him he does not know or care. Everyone knew about the past flame between the two men. It was a dangerous topic amongst the media, and even more dangerous with the real people. Love was a dangerous gamble in the world of TV stars and shining idols, because it was all fake. A play that was too real and too deep. Some did it to pass time, others did it for the fame that came with the partnership, but there were some who really did it for love. Some who wanted the commitment and the horrible consequences it would bring. That wasn't him.

" _Yao Yao! ~"_

Amethyst eyes find their way into his mind. That gentle yet powerful touch, those eyes that stare at him like he was the world. Like he was the very reason of his existence. Like if he could, he could break him entirely with his words alone. And maybe he could, maybe. He remembers the short moment they had within the lonely walls of their duplex, how he was caught in the act, and yet Ivan was still distant. It was indeed true, Ivan would never force him to reveal anything. Ivan would never. It simply wasn't in his nature.

 **Lying wasn't in his either.**

"Well then Arthur, it's best if we start reviewing our routine," Yao quips in, his voice trailing off as he catches deep periwinkle eyes, he shifts uncomfortably underneath the scrutiny of the stare, his heart already singing another heavy beat that deemed fatal in the moment. He wonders if the Russian could sense his discomfort because he looks away, looking bored and mildly distracted. Some part of him seems to clench in pain for a short moment, and just like Arthur, a pained expression appears and vanishes within mere seconds. The betrayal of emotion makes him flush, his rigid stance firming as he forces himself from his lucid sleep.

Almost as sudden as he awoke, a loud door opening could be heard. The howl of a loud cheer resonates against the blank walls decorated by nothing but a clock. His hair whips his face as he turns around.

" _Mon ami_ , the face of adoration on her face was _priceless_ ," Francis walks out, his blond hair tied neatly into a ponytail. The collective silence that rings out when he sees familiar faces quiets the entire hall.

Ivan lowers the competition's brochures that he's been reading. Eyes already exchanging a message to Alfred who only frowns- an expression that looked so misplaced on his light content face.

"Look who we have here, the ' _ALLIES'_ ," a silvery white head of hair glistens and a pair of red eyes follow. It amazed him that his hair could be so pale, he wonders if it was bleached and dyed but he knows that that's not it. It was to smooth and straight for it to be artificial. Chemicals would have burned that silkiness a long time ago. Just like how anything that wasn't authentic would soon crisp away in the heat of the spotlight. A fake diamond will always be found, and fool's gold is worth nothing.

" _Gilbert_." Arthur nods curtly although his eyes strain as he tries to spark any emotion within the French man. Anything that tells him he wasn't like the other woman or men he knows Francis spends time with, anything that told him that he wasn't the only person who felt the pain of the departure and the departed. However, his voice betrays nothing as he approaches the two, searching for the remainder Spaniard he despises. The final member of the .Trio.

"What are you doing in Canada?" Arthur asks, although it comes more like an accusation and the German frowns, pouting almost playfully. His eyes twinkle in the florescent lights, that grin that captures everyone's attention drives the four mad. The arrogance and the confidence displayed shamelessly makes them wonder what he wouldn't do. What limits he had. What were his boundaries?

"And that would concern you _because_?" he grins, his teeth showing. Ah…He hated this man's guts.

" **¿Que está pasando aqui?"**

 **[What's going on here?]**

A tanned brunette shows his face and Gilbert groans, pointing to Arthur and the rest. "What did I say about speaking Spanish? I don' . _Spanish_!". Despite his annoyed tone there's a slight weave of a smile on his lips.

Alfred could hear a chuckle before the persistent word that even he understood, "Si, Si, Si."

There's an air of an awkward and unbreakable silence filled with pleading glances and deep stares before finally Gilbert interrupts. Shattering the almost comforting quietness with his witty and blunt remarks, Ivan sighs, something that Alfred catches.

"It's strange that you guys call yourself the 'ALLIES', when you couldn't be the more _divided_."

He suddenly turns, his short hair losing its form momentarily. His eyes leaving Arthur's only for a moment before a cold smile greets his lips rather than the wolfish grin. Arthur already knows what's going to happen, it haunts him as a memory that can only be contained, not erased. He looks back at his own team members and they all stare forlornly at him. Expecting the supposedly unexpected, they walk closer in means of support. An invisible bond to be reckoned with. A force that nobody thought was powerful until it came to them in all their strength. Yao stands in between him and the Russian, a spark of anger already shown on his feminine features, the itch of the sneer and the narrowed expecting eyes already catching onto his once neutral expression. Alfred simply watches from afar, his fists clenching and releasing in a pre-angered stat, he doesn't trust his capability to 'hold back' so he might as well control from afar.

Suddenly, Francis is in front of them the hint of a deep sorrow and regret in his eyes, his shoulders are tightly grasped by Gilbert's pale fingers. Alfred closes his eyes in pain, clenching his two fists so tightly his knuckles turn white.

"After all, we are the B.T.T. consisting of I, _awesome_ Gilbert, Antonio, and Francis Bonnefoy. _Ex_ member of the ' _ALLIES'_."

Gilbert smiles triumphally before nodding at the Spaniard who shakes his head looking almost apologetic if not for the exasperated smile on his lips.

There's another silence followed by a woman barely in her thirties opening the door and murmuring a string of four names. And just like that Arthur leaves, walking defeated, his head lowered as his eyes pray that they leave un-drenched with tears, and shortly after there's Alfred that follows, concern and disgust staring at the three. He respected Francis's decision to leave, he always thought the romantic songs and melodies suited him more, and after the dissolution of their five-member band he was certain Francis felt the same. He was like a family member no matter the distance, a bond that would last a lifetime no matter how quickly it was destroyed or interrupted. But what hurt him the most was seeing Arthur slowly die out. Like a candle snuffed of its flame by its own candle wax.

He releases his curled fists. _Control_.

"Jerk." He refutes loud enough for Gilbert to hear. It was strange, Gilbert and him were great friends but before they could establish any kind of relationship they had to move on from the past, why was it such a difficult thing? He left his ages ago. He shakes his head slowly, but they were also competitors in a big world of numbers and rates, percentage's, and standings. Everything that defined them as enemies. Even he understood the silent tension between the best of friends- the best of enenmies.

" _Aiyaa_ …" Yao sighs, rubbing his temples from an already growing migraine, he too slowly walks past the three, his brotherly protectiveness makes him send a cold glare at the other, muttering a string of diligent and unfriendly warnings in both Chinese and English. His bad mood reeking as he saunters past.

"Please refrain from speaking to a member of my team like that. The next time it will _not_ go away unscathed."

Ivan only chuckles as he listens and trails behind the long ponytail that waves in front of him. "You are lucky, _Da_? Without Francis, your B.T.T. wouldn't even _exist_."

Gilbert only growls in response. His sharp teeth baring together like an angry dog or a small puppy in Ivan's eyes. A man who was all talk and no act. Those kinds of men were useless. All that muscle but what would you use it for?

He quickly scurries in between the slowly closing door, his eyes only leaving the crimson ones when the door slams shut, the smug smirk tugging at his lips before he turns on his heels, joining his group members who don't look half as lively when they first arrived. He stands beside the Asian, admiring him in the most innocent way as he confirmed their group name. That _voice_ , _heavens_ could only know what it could do to him. He reports his name lazily when asked before narrowing his eyes, but he had to crack the secret first, that was the first step to any future plans. Any. He remembers those pixelated lines he willed himself to ignore, those eyes that stared at him in utter fright, the thrill of knowing that he had found a side of Yao that he shouldn't have. He delighted in the power it gave him. The dominance, and yet he thought it was the only thing connecting the two, he remembers the embrace they shared, he thought they were as close as can be but with a single touch he could only feel the distance.

He smiles quietly to himself, almost chuckling even if he had no reason to. Then again, being in what he thought was love was surely a good reason. Yao had given him the reason, he was the first person who had given him a reason to do more than just live. No, with Yao he had aspirations, he wanted to live and _conquer_ , maybe even beyond that. The Russian stares past Yao and at the British man who looks glum. He was certain that Arthur had left a certain depth to the French man's heart. No matter how deep or painful, he saw it within every line of music they sung together. Every beautiful glance when the line mentioned a corny but absolutely stunning romanticized lover. He spent ages watching their fights with amused eyes, watching as their insults had no vigor, he's seen the music the two created, and although he was not the kind of man to console another, he was absolutely certain that Arthur had and will always hold a special corner of the French man's heart. He has never felt so certain about anything in his life.

"Please sit down." She gestures to a long sofa. It's onyx exterior resembling the night and the small studded crystals mimicked the millions of stars. "Before we begin let's start with the practical."

There was no way to mistake the truthful shock that spread amongst their faces. Only who hid it better. Yao and Arthur smile, remaining charismatic although there smiles remain professional, warm although no one would dare approach them. Ivan musters a smile to, although it's too cold to be welcoming and the curt nod that follows is too stiff and rough. He hated surprises.

However, Alfred almost chokes in surprise, his eyes wide before he looks at Arthur mouthing the words, ' _Practical_? _We're doomed.'_

"No not _doomed_ , simply a series of questions that will hopefully let me get to know your persona's more."

Arthur groans quietly and Alfred simply smiles, his eyebrows itched together in embarrassment.

"So, let's start with Mr. _Braginski_?" She looks over at the Northerner before pushing her small framed glasses on the bridge of her high nose. Ivan shifts with his name being mentioned, catching the neon streams of colour that reflect off of the miniscule crystals that twinkle in there own night.

"What do you love the most about music? Everyone will have the chance to answer."

The Russian's eyes widen in surprise briefly, his mind flashing creatively for an ideal answer before he smiles. His eyes shining as he starts the beginning of a truthful answer. After all, they wanted the truth no? Or as close as it could get. His mind stresses as he tries to think about a response. A good response, a response that was articulated properly, a response that everyone knew was planned but couldn't say anything more since it was perfect. An answer about how it inspires him and how he loved it since birth- all lies of course. He smiles distractedly at the judicator before opening his mouth. However he finds himself thinking about the colour red instead, and his perfect answer is now merely a rough draft, sentences changing, like a composer thinking up an idea or an architect simply matting out sketches.

" _Da_ , well, I believe that music could very easily interoperate a person's personality." The woman nods firmly before taking an ink pen, scribbling lines of criticism and authentic quotes. His mouth opens in hesitation several times and he could feel the hot gazes of everyone on him. Judging, awaiting what he would say next. He wasn't to sure what to say. He pauses, could he ask to restart?

Ivan continues hesitantly, his eyes widening as he thinks of swirling ink letters- calligraphy. "Music could describe a person very fervently, like touch, and smell. Although you hear it more then you see it…"

He thinks of that person's warm smile and then that person's sad grimace, the one that makes his heart wrench so deeply it was like it was his own pain, "You could _feel_ the emotion. The love and the pain, it's all written in between the black and white music notes. Da?"

He could feel a molten gold gaze on him now. Swallowing hard, he exhales a breath he doesn't even he's holding. His chest rises as he breaths, almost forgetting where he was and the goal he was trying to accomplish. He wonders if he's coming off too hard, he certainly didn't want to profess his feelings in an audition.

Everyone seems enraptured in his answer, hanging on every word as they piece together their own proper conclusion, but he only needed one pair of eyes on him. Only one.

The woman stares at him for a moment before once again nodding, her pen strokes getting faster and more rushed, but Ivan could care less about the woman, or the interview, or anything in the world. His mind is only on one person, and that person is _Yao_. He could almost feel his touch, almost feel the drop of temperature when he's upset, so he continues, "It doesn't quite matter the genre, the message is always the same. It's almost like a story, da? You know it, and you could feel it, every sudden stop, every beat. It is simply the embodiment of a perfect fairyta-."

Arthur coughs.

On purpose or not it doesn't matter because everyone is suddenly broken away from the divine spell that Ivan didn't mean to cast. The amber eyes continue to survey him, and only for a moment do they meet eyes before the Russian turns away, heat running up into his ears creating a beat that suited rock more than jazz.

The judicator waits for him expectantly. Probably expecting a grand flourish to a silly answer but instead he cowers away. The feeling of bashfulness too overwhelming for him to think properly. He straightens his back, dusting off the pretend dust on his pants. The British man grins ruefully.

"I…" he stutters, "I find that very beautiful…" That's right. Yao was beautiful. No, he was goddamn _divine_. "Da. That is my answer."

Arthur smiles softly and Ivan wonders if he sees through his answer and at the real subject he was talking about. He wonders whether or not his answer would be considered a lie while the beauty of the man itself is in every word truthful. He smiles, pained that Yao did not look as impressed as he wanted him to be.

"Mr. _Kirkland_?" The examiner asks, dropping her pen only to flex her tired muscles.

"Ah...yes," he stalls, "same question?"

The woman nods as he rapidly thinks of an explanation. Like Ivan he starts slowly but he keeps his answer brief and truthful. He doesn't _think_ of anyone during his answer.

"I...I didn't always find the importance of music in my early days…" he really didn't. As he says this his mind dwells on his brothers, he has three but he does not omit names.

"My family has struggled a lot in the past and music has come to me by instinct. A kind of salvage or liberty in my pained past." That's right. He thinks of secret exchanges for cash and the cigarettes that lay on the ground like a bed of burned paper. Smoke always intoxicating his aflame lungs.

"Music came to me as a way to relief myself, for me _and_ my entire family. It helped me understand my emotions and thoughts when words couldn't express properly. It's almost selfish but I used music for myself. It _saved_ me," He closes his eyes, omitting the dark details. The dark trenches, and the calloused people he had met. He breathes softly, his voice a pitch higher. "And for that, I am forever grateful."

He glances at the woman who smiles sadly at him. "I'm certain it must have been very hard for you." Her pen still moves in her hand.

He doesn't know whether or not he's supposed to answer so he only shrugs, forcing a wry grin. "I try."

Her gaze seems to fixate on him before she nods, turning to a new page on her notepad. Her sympathy could only last for so long.

"And...Mr. _Jones_?" She scribbles a name, starring patiently into the American's eyes.

"Ah, right!" Alfred says, laughing whole heartedly. He pushes his glasses up, careful to not leave finger stains. He edges on the edge of the sofa, his legs spread apart as he leans forward, his two hands forming a ball as they stood balanced on his two thighs.

He grins a toothy grin, his eyes gleaming underneath the spectacles. "Well, to this day music has actually never really benefited me in a lot of ways. I mean what's with this whole music is like therapy thing?"

His grin widens as he thinks about dog tags clinkering together, the musk smell of sweat and iron already so natural to him that he couldn't tell between fresh and dirty air. No, music never saved him like it did to Arthur. He had to fight his way out in the most literal sense there is. He remembers the fighting, the bruises and the scars, all flaws on his perfect body. He remembers it so clearly, all those battered bones and the flowing stench blood, he remembers it. No, he remembers _them._

"It never really meant anything to me, and to this day it really doesn't either." The woman stares at him skeptically, pursing her lips and she writes that down. Clearly this is not what she expected.

He chuckles darkly to himself causing everyone to stare at him in surprise. He barely hesitates before he speaks, bold enough to even look at the judicator straight in the eye. "But it did _empower_ me in a certain way."

The woman pinches her eyebrows together before nodding. " _Please_ elaborate."

Alfred nods. Laughing in means of stalling to find a proper answer. "It empowered me in a way nothing could. I could feel the rush of adrenaline and the fake strength it gave me. Not that I don't have any real strength."

Ivan roll his eyes, although he knows that the humour is simply a distraction. A means of matting down the seriousness in the situation, the graveness of how deep Alfred's answer was becoming. Trying to distract the listener of how much information he shouldn't be giving.

"I guess I had a bit of a messed-up childhood, I had to grow up much faster than I thought I would need to." This catches Arthur's attention and he stares both awe struck and completely devastated at the American. There's something cloudy in the blue eyes he's see's every day. Not tears but something _off_ about them that seemed strangely terrifying. There's a shaky breath before he continues.

"I listened to a lot of music growing up, the good ol' rock' n roll, and I realized that although music didn't help my current situation, it moves me in a way that's just…" he makes these strange sounds that mimic an explosion. "mind blowing."

There's an empty silence, Ivan and Yao stares at him in apathy. He chooses to believe that they're simply listening very intently then not caring.

"So, I guess you may wonder why I do this music thing. Well, I want and will always want to inspire people in a way that could push them forward. If you're sad, I want to create something that will make you happy. If you're _weak_ I want to make you _**strong**_." Everyone sees the glimmer in his eyes as he says that, and the British man can't help but find something so powerfully endearing in it. Something that assures him that there is a ghost of maturity in the American, that through all those jokes and laughs there sits a version of him that knows what he's doing. The man who knew exactly why he was here and why he had come.

Alfred changes his position, stretching his arms all the while looking the woman in the face. "Music is simply my method of inspiring others. Done."

The woman stares at him in understanding. She opens her mouth, "So you believe music is a form to inspire and help others?"

The blond beams, nodding. "That's right. It's the _message_ that counts."

There's an uplifting glance at Alfred and she smiles, continuously bobbing her head up and down. "Interesting."

There's a pat on Alfred's shoulder and he turns to see Arthur who smiles at him like a father proud of his son. He beams happily, his heart strangely content that he could please him.

"And the last of you four…Mr. _Wang_?" There's a slight accent at the way she accentuates his name, but he pushes that aside by smiling charmingly. He was like Arthur in this aspect, they both held heavy groundings on their lives. For them there's a border- a line that separates work and personal life, it was only natural that they had different faces for them to. Two embodiments of themselves that are better, more pretty, more refined, simply perfect. A version of themselves that despite their perfection are incredibly fake. Fool's gold amongst others and their sole job was to make people believe they weren't as fake as they knew they were. He would never mix the two together. Business and feelings could only end with one side winning.

"Continue when you are ready."

Yao nods, it doesn't take long for him to find a plausible answer. He could feel eyes on him as he presses his lips into a grim line. Pretending to put some thought in the answer he has already planned.

"Music is an interesting thing-aru." He pauses, "Like Ivan I also believe music holds certain sentiments. There is pain, and there is love, and you could hear them clash together in the song. By the beat or the instruments trying to convey the emotion."

The Eastern man smiles sadly, his face looking awfully pained. "Music has become my method of travelling through time, no matter the genre. When I create music, it is simply verses amongst verses, lines that don't mean any sense if not sung in a certain way."

He remembers what Alfred say's about the meaning of the lyrics and how they are much more important than the melody itself. "I also agree with Alfred. It is the lyrics that makes me feel the pain and the love, and any other emotion that crosses my mind. And with that I travel through time."

He thinks about Sakura petals that float in the air, suspended in a timeline he can no longer reach out to. He closes his eyes, he would not disclose anything. He was already on the verge of being found out, anything else would simply ruin his complicated lies to begin with. Ivan seems to read his mind as he looks at him, anticipating what he _would_ disclose. What he _would_ risk saying. The same smile he saw moments ago infuriates him. A smile that meant business, cold, placid, and knowing. The smile that condemned a certain kind of power over him. Like he was a dancer only able to dance freely into the palms of someone's hand.

He coughs awkwardly, confused stares piercing him. "I believe a good song is when you can relate to it. When you could feel the pain or happiness of the melody like it's your own. And that is why I love it. I use music to feel the pain of the past, and the hope of the future." Amethyst eyes find his way in his vision. _Future_.

The woman stares at him in confusion still not wrapping her mind around the concept that he is talking about.

He breathes a sigh, quiet and contained, almost unnoticeable if not for the rise of his chest. "Tell me, have you ever listened to a song that you could relate to so much it made you want to cry?"

He asks everyone in general and they all nod, surprised by the sudden question.

"Well, that is why I love music. I love it because I could relate and I could feel the pain as I think of my own. It's really simple, really- aru."

The woman nods firmly, finally able to process the complex reasoning. " _How unique_.". There's a meek chuckle coming from the Oriental and he can't help but find the underlining meaning behind her words. The silent meaning that screamed; _how different._

The entire room is basked in yet another silence as the woman seems to shuffle through endless pages, something Arthur watches in nervousness.

"Alright then, let's start your audition, if you may? There's the sound system by your left in which you can start playing your own track."

"Arthur." Alfred nods firmly at the British man who stands up, a small USB stick in his hand as he struts to the large computer that flickers alive. The choreography replaying in his head, the hand gestures, the feet kicks and turns. All of them dance in his mind as he pushes the device into an empty jack. His mind races as he opens endless files. Everyone's answers to the same question distracts him into an endless abyss of question. Why had he learnt everything from his partners here out of all places? He clicks onto a new file, it's contents blinking alive as he scans each title. A lonely hole seems to make its way into his heart, worming its way into all of his discomforts and insecurities. Had there years of friendship mean nothing? Then again, he to has never talked about his past with them. He was just like them, guarded, still suspicious, and untrusting.

He finally finds the right track hidden in an endless inception of files.

"What's the name of your original piece?" he overhears, and he could see Yao flush in something that looked like shame. There _was_ no name and yet Yao finds an answer that fits the question he was asked. The look of a deep thought uplifting into a smile.

"'Not… Today'". He answers, and the Eastern man turns to him, silently asking if he was ready. He lets go of a shaky breath, nodding.

The track starts playing silently, going firm as he runs back into his position, his breath calming as he controls his every movement. He sees Alfred grinning at him, the darkness in his eyes so far away, he turns to everyone else. All their expressions relaxed and ready, small smiles on there lips despite the graveness of the situation. And even without a microphone he sings the first empowering line, his voice radiating with every emotion he may be feeling, his body already moving as he lets everyone else slowly pick their ques. There voices playing a stronger part in this war of emotion. Everyone does as they are told, legs move right and then left, and then like everything is alright they all come together. Together they unite until they are nothing more then a harmonious body of sound.

And in that small room, the onyx sofa the only reminder that tells them they aren't on stage, the audience a mere woman who looks on ahead,-

 _ **They own it.**_

* * *

In that room as they pant their last lines out, the unknown woman walks toward them, giving them something that seemed important although they don't bother to look.

"Your in."

And then they all smile.

* * *

 **To GUEST:**

Yao: The director has told us that you may still be sick since you haven't given us your usual critical feedback, the director is very concerned-aru! I'm certain that my special Chinese medicine would have made you better instantly compared to that sickening western medicine…

Arthur: Oh, shut it Yao! Bloody roots and leaves couldn't possible help our Guest…But yes, do get well soon.

Ivan: Da, da, da, get well soon!

Alfred: Hahaha, dude, get well soon, our director is getting paranoid…It's pretty scary, but I'm certain awesome me's acting in this excerpt will definitely cheer you up! The power of the HERO shines strong!

* * *

 **Review!**

 **Share your love!  
Tell me your favorite pairings!**


	11. The Game Start's- Chapter Eleven

**The World's Stage**

 **The Game Start's**

 **Chapter Eleven**

 _There are dreams and there are nightmares, but through the midst of the black and white there are memories._

 _It's cloudy, thick smog that circles around him, fighting him, willing him to choke out the ashes in his mouth. His first cigarette was the first of many to come, and he treats the cigarette as something like an orientation. An orientation that seems to only finalize that he's almost certain he will grow old in Oldham, England. Good Oldham that prides in its low education and even lower economy. Where rats are eating more than the people who salvage and steal more than they can chew, and where gangsters and the mobs who brag about territory are in sense ruling rubbish upon rubbish. Just more rubbish to add to the huge dystopia the town has become—is._

 _He stares at himself in something between admiration and disgust. Watching as he struggles to hold the smoke in his lungs. Like a mirror he watches the other side, clear and pristine. Shining so vividly that a swarm of cloudy nostalgia glazes his eyes._

 _But there's a part of him that is in denial, complete denial, and rage, not comprehending how his fine mind at work could be wasted mopping a forever stained floor, and that rage pushes him. Pushes him so hard that he can still remember the burn of hatred and self-loath and strangely, determination that burns and brittles from the inside. It was despair maybe, or maybe it was desperation. Where he was willing to do anything, anything he could to survive. To leave and escape this hell. He remembers the emotion, he remembers it all, from the hatred to the determination, it never left him and the black coal his heart became after the intense burn still remained. Living-- preventing him to feel the emotions that he had long forgotten. Perhaps it was love, or care? He doesn't remember. He just knows that without it he hasn't lived any differently._

 _It hurt him. He feels his conscious flicker between timelines, and suddenly he is watching himself looking a little older and a little more beaten through time and experience. Bag's of disgusting filth sit beside him and he watches himself slide down the wall, tears staining his cheeks as he holds a large pile of British silver pound. He doesn't remember whether or not those are tears of joy or demise, he just knows it hurts all the same. Because pain is not a relative thing. When it hurts it hurts._

 _That's right, cry. Cry like the weakling he is. And when he finishes crying he will continue selling. Selling those bags of liquids and leaves until he can afford five tickets to London or Winchester. And through it all he watches as his heart changes. Weak to strong. Soft to tough. He watches beyond the mirror like a movie—a documentary of a time that has already passed. And suddenly everything is so close, he steps back almost falling even though he knows that this isn't real. His body is stiff and it pushes him to approach the foggy figure._

 _It was as if he was no longer a viewer but partaking in the events that unrolled._

 _He could see himself crying, chest rising, shoulders trembling, he could see the strain, and before his conscious ushers him to wake up, the world slowly crumbling in a blinding white, he whispers something that comes out more like a desperate yell._

 _"Don't give up…!"_

 _He refutes loudly, the background already nothing but static. He repeats it again, and again somehow pitying the version of himself in front of him. He approaches the silent figure, his fingers almost grazing the edges of his slightly longer hair. He knows his words fall silent as no matter what he can't reach beyond the glass, he is a spectator to an already filming dream, memory, nightmare. He watches with livid eyes, kind, weak Arthur Kirkland. Not in any sense perfect, nothing spectacular, simply a boy walking the wrong path in pure desperation._

 _All too quickly green eyes flicker onto him despite the fading background. The eyes penetrate him, acknowledging him and only then does he give in to the waking of a slumber. However, he tries to claw at the boy, trying to grip onto his shoulders but instead the green eyes fade into nothing but white. The haunting eyes dancing between memory, dream and nightmare, and through it all there's reality. Reality that those crying parakeet eyes has aged and refined through years of trial and error. Refined and roughened perhaps even toughened, sparkling a deeper shade of emerald and basil. He fell slave to time and has changed to survive._

 _He wonders as he falls closer to the verge of awakeness, has change made him colder? Has it made him harbor a strong negativity in his protected fragile heart? The questions remain answerless although he's certain somewhere in him there's the young, naive boy who lived. A pounding in his heart as he feels his muscles moving._

 _That's right, in his mind there does harbor a silent hate. A ruthless coldblooded disgust for a man who remains faceless in his memory and nightmares. There is only one hate and that belongs to one man. The man who he blames and guilts. The man who he blames everything for. Himself, his misery, his heart, his pain. He hated this man. He loathed him, and yet he can't seem to remember his face. He watches as the old scenery disintegrates, particles and shimmers disappearing into the black abyss of memory._

 _Yes. He hated only one man._

 _He falls deeper into this libido._

 _It really wasn't fair at all…_

He opens his eyes. Calmly, there's no hint of fear or anything that suggests that he's afraid, only that knowing glint of emerald that hesitates as he looks around. The hesitant yelling in the background the cause of his waking slumber. He groans, arching his back in means of stretching, yawning before heading to check the ruckus. His hair curling at its edges, his eyes half lidded blinking dazedly, his shirt undone, parting modestly revealing pale skin. He's surprised to see an exhausted Asian and Alfred in an open argument. Hands everywhere and the strangest of insults getting spewed out. A mixture of two dialogues getting scrambled together.

He catches the Russian watching in amusement, sipping a hot cup of tea that smells a lot like fruit, his eyes warm although a chilling smile is on his lips. Ivan catches his eye before nodding in his direction, tilting his head to the batch of hot tea that remains untouched. A warm gesture that he knows Yao was responsible with. He really needed to start their annual tea sessions, only the Eastern man was willing to appreciate the delicacy of tea and manage with his wonderfully made crumpets. He breaths in the citrus air, allowing the acid to melt away his problems.

He leans against the wall, yawning as the curtains open rays burn his eyes. The image of his own eyes still burned into his memory. The smell of fruit and flowers overcome his sense, annihilating the stench of weed and sweat that he could almost smell from his distant memory. The familiar memory so deep he could almost feel the dirt underneath his bare feet, almost feel his heart beating in an unbearable rhythm, and almost feel the hardening of his own mind—maturity.

Everything seems like a dream although he knows this is reality, he knows that he's made it, and that everything happening from this point is real—like it or not. He knows that the crying version of him would have been proud and that makes a warmth of pride flow through his veins. Coursing to his head as he smiles shamelessly at thin air, eyes still blinking in strange sequences. Ears still open to the screeching and the wailing.

"You idiot! How could your brain possibly comprehend its own thoughts!"

A scream echoes in the halls, his smile leaving him as he watches the Asian growl in frustration. His thin fingers clawing at his hair, it's tightly tied ribbon falling effortlessly onto the ground. Ivan purses his lips, his smile widening as he watches Yao attempt to strangle the American who only barely dodges the clawing pale hands. A sharp glare and a biting smirk deadly clear as Alfred laughs. His voice sharp, possibly ear shattering, but teasing all the same.

Arthur grimaces, any calm he felt now perishing into a heavy annoyance. His eyes opening finally, the last bits of his dream now simply a heavy foggy blur. Distant traces of green and tears now too far away in his mind for him to care. His eyes train on the two strangling figures. Their bodies wrenching at each other, pushing and convulsing as they aimed deliberate kicks and punches at the other. He didn't know what to make of it really, he just knew that it was hilarious nevertheless.

"So, you can put up a fight!" This sentence flashes something dangerous in Yao and Ivan finally stands up. The cat and dog fight becoming too dangerous and violent for the gentle calm of the morning. He smiles kindly at the two although he's certain his eyes betray the slight annoyance. His hands barely touch Yao's fingers, trying to clutch them free as they move dangerously close to the finger stained spectacles. Aiming for the face that the American was so proud of.

"You…you…fat American!" Yao retorts, cheeks going red, this time his eyes seem to flash amber and Arthur can't help but chuckle. Alfred's eyes widen when his body gets roughly pulled down, his vision going blurry as a strong cold hand pulls him to the floor. His body limping as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his eyes trailing to find Ivan's arm gripping tightly onto his shoulder as his other holds Yao's leg that seems to raise much higher than any normal kick he has seen. Both of them duly note that Yao is flexible. Another thing on the long list of surprises the elder has yet to expose.

There is tension and Arthur can't help but smile. His cheeks flaming in a healthy shade of pink and hued yellow. After their audition they have all celebrated, delighting in the time to finally relax and welcome the rest before the storm. He thinks back to when they were cheering to thin air, vowing that their hard work will always pay them back lavishly. How with effort they were invincible and will continue rising. His smile lowers. But with effort anyone could rise in both power and strength. Including your enemies. He remembers a lavish smile and bright blue eyes. He remembers french. Not as a culture or a language, but the man himself. Enemy.

He frowns, clearing his darker thoughts as he thinks about yesterday's celebration. It was small, contained, filled with fleeting giggles and promises of a proclaimed reign. Another slight quirk of his lips as he thinks about the Asian man. How he was the man who set loose the most, his back no longer as tense to stand straight, his eyes no longer a constant strain of narrow and diligent. Simply round orbs of content and calm. He watched as the man set aloof, he saw Yao laugh and he was honored to be met with the short hiccup of fleeting sound. However, every smile that graced the Asian man's face had a depth of sadness and every giggle and laugh left with the bitterness of regret. Everything was split between the evening rays of sunshine and the cold wind of dawn. Everything too black and white of a perspective. He forces his mind not to overthink the small frown that came with every smile and the glassy eyes that looked like they would cry when they showered him with praises. Because he wanted to believe that there were no secrets or malice to come and that it was simply an illusion. An illusion that was undoubtedly wrong.

His eyes snap as he hears another voice, this time a terribly slow and domineering slur. He walks over to the cup of tea that sits steaming slowly into mid air. Puffs of large white clouds evaporating in mid suspension. Beautiful like a dream. There one moment gone the next. Simply fluff of white that weaves in front of him. He takes the steaming cup, watching as the steam moved in diverse patterns, beautiful although they all had the same fate. Death.

Arthur takes a careful sip of his tea. Rasberry. He takes another, frowning. Rose?

It is silent as he sips his tea. And he indulges in the tranquility only to have it broken.

"Yao-Yao, do you wish to claw out my eyes that much?" Ivan says lowly, maybe looking hurt if not for the striking intensity in his eyes. Even Ivan had the will to scold the Asian man. Love of course had no boundaries but it certainly didn't mean to contain your own opinion. He watches as the pale fingers twitch slightly, hesitant although they meant harm. Fingernails ready to hurt and scratch. Beautiful but deadly, a perfect combination.

"He called me weak- aru." Yao says cooly, retracting his leg. His eyes narrow as he realizes how childish he sounded. He mentally scolds himself, he was the the oldest afterall. He shouldn't act this way in front of others. No, he had standards, his back stiffens while his face heats up. Embarrassment quickly catching up to the guilt and shame. He looks ahead only to see violet eyes and a certain closeness that he found overwhelming. He remembers the secret, there talk, everything between the two that seems both magically abnormal, and horribly boring. He couldn't stop forgetting those violet eyes and that smile. That business like smile. That cold smile. That smile that meant more than he can imagine. That smile thay told him that his days of pretending were over. His mood darknens. He will tell the truth, he will. Like all truths they will eventually find their way out, the intricate lies will crumble in the midst of the media and the attention. He just needed time. Time to rebuild these temporary walls. Time to find a way out, time to regain what he had lost. No. What had been stolen from him. He needed time.

He coughs stepping back, his face looking bleak while his regular persona resurfaced. Cold, calculating, immaculately obverse. Alfred frowns as he watches the change in facial features, the hard frown now a permanent factor on his delicate face. He almost wants to cause another fight to see the older man loosen up, to see the mischief and the devilish smile on his lips once again. He wanted to see the energy. The young spirit that should exist in a twenty-five year old man, despite the pills and despite the back pains.

"You called me fat," He retorts, almost daring to lift up his shirt to prove otherwise. "-and stupid. Really stupid."

Ivan grips Alfred shoulders, his eyes gazing deeply into Yao's eyes, examining his body's movement in case he lunges forward suddenly. Once again he catches the man's fingers twitch. Long fingers that seem sickeningly pale and thin.

"What's wrong with saying the truth?" Yao spits back, his eyes holding a certain intensity that Ivan craved, no longed for, except only for him. If it was hate he would take it if it was love he would embrace it. If it was anything directed to him he would take it wholeheartedly. He shivers although he stops the trembling as it courses through his body. He's never known him to be so unbearably... sappy.

"And I was just saying the truth to. You are weak! You can't even fight against Ivan. Dude, these are the facts!"

This time Yao loses it completely, and he lunges forward. Ivan taking great precaution to push Alfred out of the way while his two hands grab ahold of the Oriental beauty. His arms open, catching him as he restrains the man's slim shoulders. His height the obvious advantage in this fight, but it was also his downfall as suddenly the world is no longer as aligned as it was moments ago. He watches as the ceiling levels with his gaze, hazy black lines moving it's way in and out of his vision. His sight bleary and dreadfully blurry and that's when he realizes the heavy weight on his chest and the small groan of pain that matches his own.

He barely hears a whimper of pain as another strike of soreness rolls throughout his body. Rolling out of every tense muscle and bone like a wave of sudden pain. It hurt but it was bearable all the same. He briefly catches and feels smooth locks on his own and soon he feels a heavy weight cumbersomely shift off of him. The warmth of two pressed bodies dissipating as the gap between them grew. A loud thud rings throughout his ears and then there is silence. And maybe if he was delusional enough there is laughter and he believes that it is the angels and devils that have both come to atone his sins and good deeds. The sound never lessens and now it sounds joyful, short and content. A beautiful crescendo of giggles and hiccups. If it was the angels and devils then without doubt this angelic voice had to be satan. Bad things tended to be be good, and not all good things led to good outcomes. Some good things were like cravings. The start of a horrible yet tauntingly pristine addiction.

He finally finds the strength to shift his head, his head dizzying and he finds a laughing Yao. Time moves slower although not slow enough because the smile is soon gone replaced with discomfort, shame, and that red that hues his cheeks.

"I-Ivan, Alfred!" He crawls to Alfred who kneels although his arms are placed on the ground, helping him support his weight. The Asian man looks aghast his fingers moving swiftly as he inspects the man's body. His own cold fingers fleeting against bone and skin.

"Alfred?" Yao exclaims slowly, he trains his eyes on the blond's face. Worried that somehow he was caught in the grand scheme of things. His fingers skim lightly against the protruding bumps of his spine, fingernails treading carefully.

"Dude...dude, dude, dude…" Alfred mutters eyes growing wide, a sudden smile on his face. Yao sits waiting, afraid that the fall has someone how crushed his thick bones and that this was the aftermath of a terrible lunge forward.

"You can beat up Ivan! Wow! Just wow, you just tackled him to the floor and he's like, twice your height!"

The Russian listens, not to certain whether he should be pleased or not.

Arthur watches, eyebrows raised. Concern still not sparkling on his face. Simply an amused grin as he watches the three children fret over each other. He blows the cloud of white wisp toward the three, watching as his eyesight dims as the white fog covers only momentarily the figures on the floor. He sees how Yao frets over Alfred, ignoring Ivan entirely as the tall Russian man delicately touches the bridge of his nose, concerned although puzzled at the sudden unfolding events.

He remembers the spacious audition room, how everyone unpeeled their thick disguises. How they were honest and revealed year's worth of information. How all of a sudden, he felt like a stranger to people he's worked with for years. How suddenly, he realized that the guards they put up—the fronts were becoming more than just facades and petty disguises but a strong barrier that breached all their contracted relations. How this barrier has become something that didn't affect their work but themselves. The them behind every single protected sheet of gold they wore. They were overselling themselves and they knew it.

He loses himself in his thoughts. That's right, he didn't want to learn about Alfred's frivolous past during an interview. He didn't want to learn about Ivan's feelings through an interview, and he didn't want to hear about Yao and his thoughts through an interview. No, he didn't wanted to hear anything through an interview. He wanted to hear by himself. Person to person, eye to eye. He wanted to be that friend. That person who all three could rely on. He wanted to finally be able to stop pretending that their lives were perfect, that their friendships were perfect when in reality they were all flawed. Held by paper and ink, bonded by the instinct and need to act as one. And yet he knows that everyone feels the same way. How everyone's ties weren't as superficial as the contract that bonded them together. How the only thing that was holding them back was themselves.

"Aiyaa…Alfred, I'm asking about whether or not you're alright? Were you hit during the fall?" The Eastern man sighs as Alfred continues to ramble and only then does he glance briefly at Ivan who broke his fall. He knows in reality that the tall Russian would have been the most inclined to getting hurt, and he also knows that Alfred wasn't near the vicinity of where they had fallen. He knows all of this but through it all he realizes that he's afraid. Ashamed. Perhaps even repulsed at his very own stat. Repulsed how Ivan has seen the ugly. The black bitterness that he hid under every coerced smile. How he knows that he's just scared. Simply so afraid of admitting that he really can't win this mess he's in. How he knows he has everything to lose and nothing to gain. How he knows that the only way this web of lies will disappear is with more ruin. More lies, more tears, more fake smiles. And he doesn't want Ivan to see that. He's to repulsed at himself to admit that he's reached the end.

But there's a small voice that adds to it. How he's not just scared but worried. Concerned because his old heart is still so sappy and weak, and feeling even though it shouldn't be. How in reality he doesn't want Ivan to pursue any deeper then he should because he doesn't want him to get involved. Because if he steps any closer it wouldn't be one man facing the consequences but two.

He looks up at Ivan and only briefly do they stare at each other. Glassy eyes meeting violet. A grim line meeting a jolly smile. How could he ruin that? How could he ruin that innocence? How could he take that away, steal that way, greedily taint that away with his own selfish hope? And the truth was simple. He just couldn't.

"Good lord…what's all this fuss about anyway?" Arthur finally leaves his warm cup of tea. Leaving to join the three who make no effort to stand up. His hesitations still brimming his mind as he tries to decipher between show and real.

Yao scoffs, eyes still glassy, his thin eyebrow raising. "Alfred said we shouldn't pack due to how we could just 'buy everything from America.', I simply begged to differ.".

Alfred looks betrayed, "American things are cheap! Plus, the woman said that they would accommodate our needs. I don't understand the fuss! It's America!"

There is a heavy silence. Everyone trying to process their own thoughts. Arthur is trying to subdue his negative superstitions, Yao is trying to avoid purple, Ivan is trying to reach red, and Alfred is simply staring at the ground looking oddly conflicted as if his patriotic love was all it would take for them to agree.

Finally, after the strange shifting of fabric and the clash of eye contact, Arthur speaks.

"We're packing."

He leaves the room, a cup of tea in his hands.

And so they pack.

Alfred grumbles, placing shirt beyond shirt, pants beyond pants, shoes beyond shoes. Simply stuffing everything that fits in the rectangular suitcase he bought in America. He was rich. He knows it. Everyones knows it, and everyone else knows that he's not the only one that has enough money to buy an entire block uptown.

They were all rich, well off, pricy people. After all, they all shared the same money. It was under all there names and sealed by one long and permanent contract.

He groans as he stuffs more ties, more pants, only pausing to fold nicely the expensive suits and ties and every accessory that goes with the pricey, flashy, decorative tux. He only cares for those things, everything that isn't worth more than a couple hundred is easily dispensable. Easily replaceable. Easily achievable despite the growing prices and stocks. And although prices rose, so did his annual paycheck. It was all a perfectly balanced scale that was forever unchanging. The line between want and need became blurry like the zeroes that followed after the one.

Life was easy when money was not a priority. But money was a goal, and he has long achieved it. Now he wanted more, now he wanted power. And once he reaches that he's not to sure what he'll want next.

His hand find it's way into his pocket, the plane ticket sitting there reminds him of his trip back home. To America. To America where everything is righteous and beautiful, and although there are cities next to slums, the hardy people who work hard make even the darkest of places between alley's happy. He sighs, releasing a wrinkled shirt before taking off his glasses, rubbing the corner of his eyes like a tired man that was in need of a silent therapy.

And he misses home, he misses it so much. And the nostalgic joy of going back home was exhilarating. Even though it was for work. Even though he knows that when he gets passed the border, his head will be filled with a millennial of problems and worries. Work. Songs. The overbearing weight of competition that crushes him as it exhilarates him. They will win he tells himself, they will win because they are together, because they are friends. No, because the contract that holds them is tighter than there friendship. Because having no choice is so much better than having one and making the wrong one. Because through those blue eyes and transparent spectacles there's a part of him that yearns for power and simply self satisfaction. And through that there's another part of him that yearns for stability.

The entertainment industry is not in any means stable. It changes and shifts, like technology it grows old and new actors and entertainers rize from the ashes as old ones burn out like the old cassette tapes and DVD disks. There's 'in' and 'out' and he's determined to remain as 'in' as he can be, even when his memory burns black and white while the others are vivid and so full of colour.

He continues to stuff everything in his bag. They were going to America, the country of opportunity. The woman explained that the competition would require them to live in the vicinity of the competitions compound. An aloof smile crosses his lips, and they will stay in America because the winners stay and the losers will have to leave. No one offers spots for losers. No. There is only one place for one winner and it will be them. He feels it in his bones as much as he feels the dread that comes with the possibility of losing. He releases a sigh, squashing that dread much like the dress shirt that wrinkles under his touch. They will win, they will win, he does this a lot in his free time. Simply chanting a mantra that he hopes will become a reality. Because even confidence is belittle and needs to constantly be reinforced for it to work. He fakes it until he makes it. That was how he lived. That was his own living motto.

Sooner or later he will really believe he is a hero. Sooner or later his nightly chanting will make him the hero. It started with confidence, that was the thing everyone lacked in his group. They hid themselves, while he did not. He is hero, and the only thing he's hiding behind his attractive blue eyes and signature smile is simply how he's a lot smarter than people make him for.

He checks the time on the metallic clock that ticks quietly into space.

It was going to be a long day.

"Yao what the bloody hell are you doing with all that baggage?! Dear god, it's like you're moving entirely with all...all that…" Arthur points aghast at the two luggages that carry much more than a week's worth of clothing. The Asian man forces a smile. The strain of his lips thin and wavering. The Russian man besides him looks silent, his lips also in a grim line although Arthur knows it's for an entirely new reason.

There's an unreasonably dry laugh that escapes the man's throat. "You...you wouldn't understand- aru.."

Alfred laughs humorlessly, fidgeting with his plane ticket, his mind elsewhere and still by instinct he feels the need to challenge the statement. Because he is a challenger between all the laughter and joy. Because through it all, he is a fighter who fights for nothing but himself. "Ha, right? Try us!"

The older man blushes red, and Ivan feels a twist of a pity and jealousy within him. A small pinch of anger situated deep between his two lungs that stills and hurts from within. His own small duffle bag is thrown over his shoulders, the smell of lavender and sunflower essence to close for his liking. He prefers the distant waft of tea and camellias and suddenly he realizes that he is simply smelling perfume and cologne. It's murky scent spreading evenly between the three, glossing over every familiar scent with something that smells rich and expensive.

"We do not have time- aru. Quit your loitering, it is you who wants to get to the airport earlier!" A slim finger finds its way to accusingly at Alfred, and Arthur is certain that Yao knows that it's improper. Whether or not he cares, he does not know. He sighs, but it is excusable because they are no cameras here, because only here the freedom of speech truly exists.

Alfred raises his eyebrows. Reminiscing of America and the old fables of heroes and fallen men on horses. It distracts him and Yao is glad because soon the blond shrugs, his heavy shoulders shifting uncomfortably.

There is a stillness in their silence and Alfred is the first to end the maddening quietness.

"Are we going or what?" He remarks impatiently and everyone glares at him before silently nodding. There faces looking somehow farfetched despite the change and the movement that leads to there goal. They are all tired and it seems only a few hours ago that they have drunk and cheered and vowed. Only hours ago have they received the yes on their dream and opportunity.

With only a glance back Alfred paredes away, and just like the heroes in the movies there waits an expensive and flashy looking vehicle that he's certain will drive them away into the night of success and pole lights. He smiles, ignoring the tired and annoyed groans.

Only one thought dances in his mind as the chauffeur leads them to the building of rockets and planes.

He is a hero.

The day runs smoothly and they cross the border seamlessly. Seamlessly and quick and Arthur is still tired and anxious. Everyone is, despite the American who laughs and screams and hollers as they touch down onto the American soil of Los Angeles. The city of stars and buildings and success, and Alfred laughs when they are greeted with crowds and crowds of people cheering them on-- him on, and the adrenaline that drives him and determines him to sign every picture and every piece of parchment makes the other three groan.

As they walk onto the plush carpets and into the taxis and limousines that lead them to their destination, they don't realize that the moment they step into the golden crusted doors of an empire that is filled with music and disks and opportunity, the truth is that not all dreams come true, and when they do,

You have to work.

I **apologize in advance for the long, long, long wait. I feel as if I haven't tried hard on this chapter, so complaints? I'll take them. This is indeed, simply a filler chapter. Am I proud of this chapter? No. Will I be of the next? Yes! Am I slowing down my updates forever? No. Will I finish this story? Yes, and it will be approximately 22 chapters long! Halfway there!**

 **If you haven't noticed, I recently created my very second fanfiction (Hetalia related)!**

 **By the time I post this chapter, it will be at it's second chapter and it would mean the world if you guys check it out! Note, how my writing style is different to induce a different aura and atmosphere. It's going to be dark, romantic, filled with angst, however no smut, it's mature for the way I present themes. I DO NOT WRITE SMUT. If you are willing, please review and tell me if you prefer this story or the other! I mean it, if you are a frequent follower of my work, you will notice the difference in style. I beg of you, tell me which one you guys prefer more, I'm exploring writing styles!**

 **Guest: Thank you, thank you, thank you! I thought you left and gave up on me, and if you did, now that would be a crisis wouldn't it? I beg of you stay until the end, and I promise there will be one. Check out my second story! Your beautifully written feedback is needed and my writing is still so flawed. Your gorgeously written reviews make my day, there long and lengthen so please give me feedback on this one. Whether it's harsh or not, it's quite alright. I admit...this chapter is horrible and horribly planned, and simply a filler...**

 **I love your feedback, yes, you catch on so quickly, and yes, the ALLIES greet you warmly! Hopefully I will see your next review and your next and your next...God, it really is my favourite thing to read!**


	12. To Know- Chapter Twelve

**The World's Stage**

Chapter Twelve

 **To Know**

It is _white_ they see when the doors open in all its undenying glory. Gold so bright, so rich in value that it's overwhelming, a coil of some kind of realization so undoubtedly shocking and sharp through the burning flash of a sharp click. And then there is sound, a wave, a camera, and they are suddenly overtaken by cameras and the screams that come with it. The 'ALLIES' bask in it all, faces contorting into something that resembles a smile. Skin marred yellow and white from light of all angles. A moment of surprise before they simmer down into their own readiness of what to come, what to do, what to expect within the gold and the deep reds of velvets. They're smiles of pretense only widen in a swift steady motion. A motion so conflicting yet subtle.

It is the art of transition and adaptation.

"The 'ALLIES' are now on the scene, cameras ready, _**quickly**_! Shooting in one, two, three _action_!" a yell echoes beyond the rich halls of deemed marble, and Arthur scans the hall, curious orbs of green staring pointedly at the crystals and the reds of velvets and chandeliers. It's really beautiful for a mere lobby, he thinks through much scrutinization. His thick eyebrows press downward as he scans the room.

It's beautifully grand, yet through his fixation his eyes roam for something else. A person, a man, a _french_ man. He blinks, _no_ , he thinks, he must have gone mad. He can't help but stare, a final glance before a shallow sigh.

Ivan smiles and waves, eyes darting every once and awhile at a new camera that peers through unashamed hands. His eyes peer determined at cameras, a fine set of features only finely cut his violet eyes and marble cut nose.

He's different then Alfred, he's different. He produces some other kind of charm.

Alfred grins, showing perfect teeth in rows and rows of charism that seeps out and only hypes the rest of the camera crew. He basks in the attention and the glory, confidence at some kind of level of superiority that eases him. Makes him calm knowing that this is for him, for his team, for his brother whom watches there moves. This is their opportunity to prove to Mattie, to Arthur, to himself that for once he truly is capable. He is so much more than just bulk and face. He is so much more, he thinks passively.

He is a hero.

" , should I handle the baggage for you?" A petite woman asks, lips pressed into an unwavering smile, professional in the art of sooth but for Yao it only irritates his mind further. His lip trembles in shock, so sudden and reeling he doesn't know how to process the question.

He shakes his head politely, "It's fine, really- aru."

He smiles, eyes narrowing as he grins warmingly. Cameras turn to him and he quickly frowns, his eyebrows deep in thought. A pending and heavy weight of silence consumes him. He can't even hear his own heart beating so instead he focuses on how he looks, the angle that's facing the camera, the sharp sounds of engrossed clicking. The heat of the attention makes his cheeks warm, redness seeping into the back of his neck. Blood suddenly burning him through his arteries and veins. He does not like cameras despite the opportunity that comes with them.

"Perhaps I can help with this baggage? In fact, I would really love to see our resting areas." He smiles once again, but there's something different about his smile now. His voice more of a command then a question, a silent play of power within the few minutes of entry. And maybe the woman sees this but she does not back down, instead her smile widens, eyes narrowed in a way that makes Yao's skin crawl.

"No, no, n-"

"Please," he presses impatiently, he really just wants to get away from the cameras. "I also need to go to the restrooms…".

He hears a snort behind him and a deep chuckle which only elevates his need to get out. His need to leave the cameras that are constantly on his back. He hopes that his excuse is not looked at differently in the eyes of the camera. His public image that is dark and ugly as it is beautiful. Flawed in the art of media and TV. It's so flawed and so cruel, he thinks sadly. It shows so little and all the while he feels exposed, naked to the harshness of the camera.

He falls prey to the eyes.

He's always been prey.

"Right, then," the woman smiles again, eyes crinkling in an ever so inviting smile. "Then come, , follow me."

He follows, the woman grabbing the rest of his teams baggage on the way. Her arms look weighed and despite that he doesn't protest to help her. His own two bags are heavy enough as it is. It's maybe the selfishness of the heart that makes him angry and pout childishly.

Luckily, the cameras leave him and he smiles aimlessly again.

"You are a very bad actor, ," the woman smiles warmly again, eyes not quite meeting, "It will get you in grave danger here."

He twitches as he smiles again, eyes holding some kind of primal fear that erupts in waves of smiles and laughs. Only then does he attempt to help her with the baggage, she shrugs off his hands of help. He frowns, feeling stung.

"Am I? And what if I wasn't pretending?" He laughs, chuckles really. He feels sick. Sick to the bone and strangely offended that time and practice were seemingly so obvious. He's faced so many challenges, he's dug and climbed his way up, so high up, he cannot possibly fall now. Vodka and violet pierce his mind, he turns, the faint press of chest and flesh so familiar in his distant mind, and although he looks at this one intimate moment as a confusing piece of truth and denial he can only come to the realization that he is just so tired. So, so, so tired.

 _He wishes he can resign._

There's a moment of silence and then another smile erupts on her delicate features.

"We've already walked past the nearest washroom," she glances at him once and then stops in front of the door. His group's name a trivial thing plastered in gold, encased in white shimmering glass. He feels the rawness of embarrassment. The feigned look of shock and despite that he only balks at the woman's wit that matches his own.

"Here, I can do the rest," he smiles despite the heat that rushes on the back of his neck, a heat surging, quiet, yet powerful, making him blush subtly at the way he's reacting. He rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. Hardly recognizing where he's heading.

"Right, well then," she fumbles with the load of baggage, her arms struggling when she hands him a small golden key.

"Your first task should be written inside," she says, and Yao only stares in confusion, eyes crinkling while she shuffles all large baggage by the door. He motions for her to stop, eyes landing briefly on the golden key in his hands.

"I can handle it from here," he shuffles handing out his arms for her to place, he brings his hair back, the pony tail itching the back of his neck, the red ribbon loosening. She looks at him, stares and he begins to smile before she gives him a hasty glare. She stamps closer, and Yao can't help but be intimidated. He drops the luggage in his arms and instead places two hands in front of his chest. Her face reaches his ear, there both so short.

"You need to be careful here," she whispers and he stops and finds himself leaning into her, eyes narrowed in acknowledgement.

"The people here are merciless, cold-blooded." Yao shivers as he feels her breath leave his ear. He glances at the empty hallways, adorned with beautiful paintings, records, medals that were once won years ago. And suddenly, everything falls in place, an order that's corrupted, undefined. A heaviness and ugliness shine brightest on every smiling photograph, on every golden adorned and ornate painting, on all the slogans and compliments written in the stitches of the wallpaper.

A trap. He feels trapped, and suddenly breathing becomes difficult.

"Why, why are you telling me this?" he steps back, breath shallow. She looks at him behind heavy bangs, "Like I said," she smiles bright, handing him the baggage on the ground. "You're a bad actor."

She says it slowly, she tries to meet his eyes but he turns, pressing them closed.

So she leaves, does not wave, does not smile, does not answer the silent questions that float around him. He calms his heartbeat, calms the rising tension that her words have created. He picks up all the baggage on the ground, cool colours of leather and plastic in his arms as he struggles to fit the key within the small metal frame.

He opens the door and for the second time that day, he drops everything and only stares ahead.

* * *

Ivan searches, watches calmly at Yao's retreating figure. Watches as Yao stubbornly does not aid the small women that leads the way. He frowns, although quickly wanes a smile as an interviewer quickly starts asking him questions.

"So, Ivan is it? Well, _Ivan_ what do you think about the base of the competition? You may be spending multiple weeks within this building, do you have any questions?"

She presses him, and he only then realizes that Alfred and Arthur are no longer by his side. He hesitates before smiling charmingly, he watches as she shifts bashfully.

"Da, actually, I wanted to ask for the longest time now, who else resides within this facility? Other groups, bands, I should be aware of?"

Her smile widens and she gushes her next words, "Oh! The 'AXIS' have already stayed here for countless nights."

Ivan's eyes dim, his smile goes slack. He turns his back, struggling to see the black of Yao's waving ponytail. His posture stiffens, and he remembers. Remember's Yao's secrets, secrets he must unveil slowly but surely. He remembers Yao's warm smiles and the familiar trembling of his lip when he lies. It does not take a genius to know that whatever Yao is shouldering on his own is killing him, breaking him, making him miserable and he craves to end that all. He wants, loves, cherishes him, wants him to be happy with _him_ , and only him. He clenches and unclenches his fists, violet eyes darting until he finally calms.

"Thank you," he says and he puts a hand on her shoulder, she doesn't realize the firm grip. The fingers that press and are meant to break and _have_ broken before.

"Actually, I was wondering, is it possible for you to lead me to our resting quarters?".

She does nothing but smile.

It's strange, Yao thinks, in his dreams, Kiku is ugly, faceless, _cruel_ , not at all elegant. But these are all lies, because Kiku's _right in front of him_ and he's beautifully ethereal. He's pale, almost as pale as he is, and his hair is cut short, choppy cuts that frame him nicely. He looks good, he looks healthy, he looks _happy_ , and that's all Yao has ever wanted. That's all Yao has ever wanted to achieve when he was so much younger, when he was still new to the face of a camera and naive to the harshness of contracts. When goodness came from the soul and when money came from petty jobs. He stands amongst rubble, squeaking rubber wheels still wailing.

"Yao-san," Kiku drawls, and he sits in a beautiful wide couch. "I'm glad you were able to arrive safely."

Yao grits his teeth, he demands himself to get rid of him, to scream and holler and just let it all out. But he doesn't, instead he swallows hard, and nods. Because cameras, because face, because facades and _reputation_.

There is a pause and it doesn't look like Kiku is willing to speak first so he gladly pushes himself to end the silence. They are brothers, he is _family_ , but still, Yao is _older_ , more experienced, more ready.

"If you do not have anything to say, please," he urges, eyes narrowed, "leave."

Kiku laughs and now Yao see's it. See's the flaws that he should have seen years ago. See's how, Kiku is everything he's wanted, handsome, strong, successful, and yet so horrible, so spiteful.

"Leave? How rude, Yao-san, my 兄さん*, my _family_ , but they don't know that do they? They don't know the truth?"

 **[** **兄さん** **: Older brother]**

Yao bites his lip, blood, copper, he tastes copper. It's not that simple, the blame should not be on him. His mind races, he tastes bitterness and he feels hot veins struggle for a fight. It is so much more complicated than that. So much more complicated than secrets, and simple lies.

"Get out." he musters, he stands firm, shoulders forced straight. A stance that shows authority. A fake attempt to control, but he knows, Kiku does not like to be controlled. He cannot be bend, cannot be molded into something he is not. And he is a monster.

"Do not bring my _friends_ in this."

Kiku stands and he _flinches_ , Kiku is so much taller now, so much stronger and he walks with superiority, confidence that does wonders if used properly. But Kiku uses it for himself, uses it to abuse people, to give him the upper hand, he uses it to win and to be superior.

Who taught him to play so unfairly?

He wants to ask why, he wants to beg to _hit_. He wants to give in to it all and ask why Kiku's torturing him. Why Kiku even manages with him at all. He grimaces. He's been reduced to feeling confused, feeling weak. He feels like a dancer, a puppet to his own rules, because like he said, it's **complicated**. It's not at all easy and he feels like the strings of his arms and joints are getting all muddled together. He feels the rip in his lip, rough and new like the wounds of betrayal.

He words his next sentence carefully, "What do you have to gain from this, Kiku? Money, fame, _superiority_ over me?"

Kiku shakes his head, looking painfully misunderstood.

"To win." He says it again, "and to watch you lose.".

A pause, a long pause, and Yao struggles to breath. Kiku watches him as he attempts to suck in air, a strange conflicted emotion marrs his skin. Maybe in Yao's dreams it would be panic.

"Yao-san?"

"Get out." Yao spits, "Get out, get out, get _out_!"

The cold look comes back on, the warmth is gone and Kiku walks slowly, circling Yao once if only to watch him suffer. He likes being strong, and it is in his nightmares where he is not. It is in his nightmares that he sees Yao, Yao smiling, Yao's embrace, Yao's tender teachings. And it is weak, extremely weak and he hates weakness. He hates _Yao_.

"Yao-san, remember-" he says softly, almost _gently_ if not the prickling hand on his shoulder, "remember, you agreed, you _agreed_."

Yao breaks into a cold sweat. That's right, and now it feels like another contract, another promise that fights against him. He is prideful, he is almost always right, and he keeps his promises.

He saunters out of the room, leaving Yao to his own endeavors and not spotting the cold violet eyes that watch from afar. Ivan watches, lips smiling as an interviewer follows him, guides him into the truth. His smile remains warm, while his eyes burn cold.

* * *

The truth has yet to be unveiled.

"This place is huge!", Alfred shouts, jumping up in excitement.

"It is rather _large_ ," Arthur nods, comments, and he coughs into a handkerchief.

"There's everything, pools, _karaoke_ , there's a bar, and guess what Ivan, big guy!"

Ivan waits patiently, smiling. Yao laughs despite what Ivan knows what transpired only hours earlier. He knows, and he's glad he knows.

"There's _vodka_!"

"Oh," Ivan smiles genuinely this time, pleasantly surprised. "It has been a while since I have drunk any."

"Alfred, calm down, we were all separated, _blasted_ interviewers." He mutters the last part quietly, looking almost skeptically at the door. "They're everywhere. Scares me like a goner."

Ivan nods, although he is thankful for that one female interviewer who has led him to another piece of evidence.

Yao chuckles, grins before placing a tentative hand on a full envelope. He's already read through it shortly after Kiku has left, and finally the women's words of tasks make sense to him.

"All right, Alfred calm, we have a job to due, it's within this envelope-aru. It's the first task I suppose. This competition seems more like a reality TV show if anything," Yao pauses, "A kind woman told me that the competition may consist mainly of tasks, gimmick things."

He opens the letter, typed up, neat and yet shows so much personality to the show.

"Read it. The other teams will be here soon,"

And so Arthur takes it, scrunches up his face in what seems like concentration. His voice fills the room, and Alfred listens, he likes Arthur's voice if anything.

"To the rising 'ALLIES', within this letter you will find the details that entail your stay within our facility. Firstly, this building is designated to suit your needs, you will find the kitchen missing within your dorm, and instead will find it near the centrepiece of our building," Arthur coughs, "This ensures that all party members will be able to collaborate and very closely form closer, if _lesser_ relations. The media will be active on entailing and filling in the public of everything that has transpired."

Alfred groans.

"Secondly, as the rooms surrounding yours begins to fill in with participants, active tasks or challenges will be sorted. The loser of these or the _incompetent_ will then be forfeited and will be forced to leave."

"Haaarsh," Alfred whispers, eyes glum. Yao rolls his eyes although he also agrees.

"The top three groups, ranking higher than the rest will then be then placed in the finals where the public will decide the winners."

Ivan pauses before smiling, "Seems easy,"

"There's more. It says; the challenges will all be related to the group and highlights the skills of every individual. Everything needed to fulfill these should be found within the compound."

Alfred grabs the paper, impatient, he continues to read, voice shrill.

"Task number one: Competitors will be performing the song performed at auditions, any group failing to finish these will be forfeited. It is to be finished in two days time."

Alfred drops the page, "that's it! No good luck, no nothing!" Arthur presses his lips together, eyebrows etched into a curve. He doesn't register what Alfred says and instead thinks about Francis. About what he needs to tell Francis, about his _condition_.

He coughs into his handkerchief, trying to hide his anticipation.

Finally, Yao speaks, "The AXIS are here," Ivan's eyes shine for no reason. He licks his lips and frowns despite his urge to chuckle.

"When did you see them?" Ivan asks, and he knits his two eyebrows together. Anticipating, always anticipating what Yao would say. He sees a flicker of knowing, and then a dying glow in his eyes. Yao's fists clench as he holds onto a frail marble table.

"Oh- aru! Saw them up in the studio's. We should work on our task to." Yao lies, before frowning. "Actually, I want to go to the marketplace and purchase something…"

Alfred laughs, before hitting the backs of Yao's small frame. "We're going to so win this! I mean, we got you, shorty, cold, smart guy, Ivan, big, basically the opposite guy, and we have the handsome grouch!"

Yao coughs as another vigorous slap hits him, he sneers. Although pink hides his shame.

"And we have an idiot, clearly." Everyone laughs before growing serious, and he laughs to, really, the act of laughing and coughing up lies has become so natural that it makes him retch.

"Do you think the AXIS will play fair? I reckon they've cheated multiple times." Arthur pales at the very thought. He tries so hard to be real, to be real in his effort, in his work and actions. He's tried to be real, to be honest, _tried_.

"Probably n-" Ivan tries to interject. He feels strange, and the bitterness of the relationship between Yao and Kiku makes him feel cold.

"We should work on our projects." Yao intervenes, and then he shoots him this _look_. This kind of glare that makes him calm, this madness that makes him happier because finally, finally Yao knows that he knows something. Knows something that he shouldn't and in reality he knows nothing. He simply knows that something is wrong within the two and that's more than enough to send Yao on edge.

"Da," he says before narrowing his eyes, "da, Yao is right, we should get working." He pauses, stares past Arthur and at Yao who stares back, eyes glazed in some kind of hidden rekindlement that Ivan is sure will be explained with due time. Because knowing Yao every truth is so fragile, so so weak under pressure and he is glad to push at the right parts to gain a reaction.

Yao is fun to amuse.

After a silence of off handed giggles and the crunching of papers, Arthur finally speaks up, his eyes staring at Alfred's who smiles and shows his pearly white teeth.

"So, let's head to the recording rooms? If I remember they were down the hall…" Arthur whispers to himself, as Alfred walks cooly to the door.

"It's not too difficult," Yao whispers softly, following along although his eyes trail down to Ivan. When Ivan smiles he smiles back.

And just like that they leave their own little rooms, walking towards the recording studios and aimlessly recovering there song.

* * *

Later on that day, Arthur receives a text.

" **How is your condition?"**

He scoffs.

* * *

I am back with yet another mediocre chapter! Its been a long time waiting hasn't it? However, my new story MEMO, has been regularly updated so do not stress, I will finish all of my stories, it is a promise I intend to take to my grave.

Analyzing this story, it focuses on them as characters and not to much about the setting they are in. More so, how it influences them as we had a fair share of actual singing and practicing in the previous chapters!

Whats Arthur's condition? Did anyone suspect anything?

Thank you for being patient with me!


	13. Complicated- Chapter Thirteen

**The World's Stage**

Chapter Thirteen

 **Complicated**

* * *

 _ **[We should talk.]**_

* * *

The act of practicing is important, _critical_ , and for Alfred useless because he already knows the songs, already knows the chords, already knows the high and lows, the limits of his voice on others, the diminishing of the intervals. He knows all of this and yet chooses to practice more, harder, until his lips are dry and his throat burns from every octave skip and every high note he doesn't understand _how_ Yao hits with such ease. It's the competition and the nature of being the best at everything that pushes him so far; he stares at Arthur who seems to glance every minute at his vibrating phone, he frowns before leaning closer.

"You going to take that?" He asks, and Arthur noticeably stiffens in stature, his arms going limp. Yao and Ivan are off talking in the corner of the rectangle wall, there reflections within the mirrors bright with emotion, possibly livid.

Are they arguing? _Of course not._

"Ahhh. No, no, no. It's fine." Arthur says, but Alfred is nowhere near convinced. He tries to glimpse at the caller and wonders if his sudden itching curiosity is due to his natural character. He doesn't like how Arthur stands stiff, ready to hurl his phone at the wall. It's too easy to read him.

They stand for a moment; still, the air is quiet with the vibrating and the rustle of jean and plastic medal. It's difficult to ignore and Alfred scratches the back of his neck, watching as Arthur's face reddens with a possible irritation. He glances at the mirror wall and now it looks like Ivan and Yao are hardly whispering. He can almost hear the conversation, about truth about _family_ , and Alfred thinks about Mattie and how he is _still_ lying about his existence.

There is more to the story, more to the lies he is saying, and like what Yao seems to be carefully repeating is that it's, complicated.

The noise does not stop, and he finally asks again, irritated, "you're certain you're not going to take I—"

"Okay! Okay!" Arthur finally says breathing mechanically, his eyes eyeing him narrowly. "I don't see how it concerns you, you knob head."

Alfred chuckles although his eyes gleam, "So, wanna' tell me who it—"

"Sod off!"

Alfred laughs louder before nodding, as Arthur retreats into another corner away from him. He turns to watch Ivan and Yao, Yao's face is pale, too pale, for his normal ethereal complexion and Ivan looks off, his face is wretched into some kind of pain, he almost wants to intervene because Ivan is now shaking with rage, and Yao is stepping backward hands fisted into balls of pure white.

 _They can't be fighting._

He chooses to blink a blind eye.

It's not about him anyway.

 _"You don't understand,_ " he hears Yao say with a venom he's never heard before, even from a distance Alfred can hear the thick shame, a hidden guilt that only makes Ivan's body tremble more. The distance between the two is small, and they look so mismatched together it almost makes him laugh. It's _funny_ , because he knows what Ivan feels is more akin to romance then friendship, it is no longer the straight foreword friendship, the trusting, the soft gentle _loving_. It is heavy, burning with _passion_ , an inferno of desire and cold-hearted _**selfishness**_. It is madness and loving and sweet _simples_ all put together.  
He hears Yao again, "It's complicated." And he agrees; the two are.

"Then tell me, I can't help if I don't understand," Ivan whispers harshly, his eyebrows etched into a concerned furrow, and Yao's heart leaps in guilt and shame. He wants to tell him he can't. That if he does it's over, that Kiku is his brother and that it is his fault for conjuring such a beast. Because it was his responsibility, because for once this is his fault—a _miscalculation_ of things. That once again…it's _complicated,_ and that Ivan getting involved will only add to the mix of trouble. He looks at Ivan's concerned eyes. How can he hurt him by getting him involved?

He needs time. Why does no one understand that?

"I don't need your help. You don't unders—"

"Then _make_ me, Yao!"

Ivan's voice is loud, and even Yao yelps in sudden panic, he looks lost briefly before anger consumes his pallor.

"What are you _doing_? You don't understand _anything_ ; stop putting yourself where you don't need to be. You're constantly up my back, and it's _stressing_ me out, act your age! Just…—

There's a pause and Yao looks lost, once again pale, "Just give me a _break_!"

Arthur stops what he's doing, his own harsh whispering into his cell quiet, the accented voice of the other remains still, and he pulls the phone from his ear, the quiet murmuring of someone briefly taking his attention away. He stares at Yao and he feels like he can see the age pulling at the pale Asian. Feels like he can see the sickness, the accumulated use of pills, the tired soreness, the bruises that last a little longer, and suddenly he feels this out weighing pity.

Gold eyes meet his own, and he flushes, turning away, ashamed.

Alfred remains oblivious to the craziness of the situation until Yao stomps off, his face sickeningly pale with a kind of blush that makes Ivan heart stutter. It's quiet again with soft foot falls and Alfred whistles, turning to look at Ivan whose face is pink from embarrassment, the scarf on his neck looks unbearably tight, and he watches Ivan hold the two ends and pull the ends further.  
It _itches_ and Ivan's face falls through a stream of emotion. Hurt, anger, a deeper rage, and he sighs through his nose before smiling, bone chilling, cold, _harsh_ on pale features. Ugly, Arthur thinks, it is so ugly, and Ivan only pulls at his scarf again.

"What the _bloody_ hell was that?" Arthur says away from the receiver. Ivan's smile grows.

"Just a little argument," Ivan says to loudly for his liking, he winces and is shocked when a familiar voice comes out of the intercom of Arthur's phone. Stringy, but accent and all is obvious.

 _"Ivan? Is that Ivan I hear, dear Arth—"_

The call ends so suddenly that if it weren't for the accent, and the remainder of Francis's face with a call time, no one would have noticed anything. But once again, Arthur is _also_ easy to read and his body language says more than his words, despite his expanded vocabulary.

He stands, face pink much like Ivan's and Alfred feels a terrible sinking feeling in his gut. A brittle and burn somewhere within him that is telling him to ask what exactly is happening, to not remain clueless, but a part of him chooses to remain ignorant. It is absolute bliss and he likes the feeling of innocence and not knowing.

He can't get in trouble this way.

At that moment he feels warm all over and the only thought in his head is that something is terribly wrong. Something is positively rotting in there lush garden of flowers and fame. Like a phantom of warning and he stiffens, rubs his hands together and stares deeply into the mirrored wall.

"Is that _Francis_?" Alfred spits out, and is responded by firm steps heading outside the studio. Ivan and Alfred standalone after the door slams, his body leans against the walls, Ivan doesn't fit the centre of the empty and vast room so he follows Alfred's lead and stands closer to the edge of the shining mirror. He stands quiet and he notices how tense Alfred is standing, his stature is not relaxed, muscles tensed, and within him he finds the urge to ask if he's alright.

After all, they are friends.

"That was Francis." Ivan says darkly, and despite knowing the reassurance he feels a surge of betrayal , a comrade gone a miss, left, ditched. There is no kind way to say it, no nice or soft blow to the leaving. It's just a fellow member who left. He feels strange when he sees his own reflection within the mirror.

Alfred relaxes and his smile is tight, "Yeah, y'know, I thought I was finally _over_ how he left, I mean, he asked and we agreed, but…"

Ivan nods, "Da."  
It's quiet, and then Alfred says something that shocks even Ivan. It makes him feel colder than before, it makes him feel scared and it strikes within him deeper than any wound. Like the truth bluntly said, there is no time to react.

"Don't you think everything is falling apart,"  
Ivan's jaw goes slack, Alfred sees and coughs.

"No, no, I _mean_ , well, I feel like we were so _tight_ together before," he wants to use words that mean more like broken, shattered, _flawed_. Something deeper but he doesn't say anything and just laughs strangely, it comes out high pitched and Ivan's strange face deepens. Alfred's smile twitches to the left, grim, and after a while Alfred is _tired_ of smiling and it turns into a grim line.

 _Ignorance. Should he remain this oblivious?_

But he's still a hero, isn't he?  
 _Complicated, way too complicated._

After a while, with the room quiet Ivan sighs, akin to a growl. "I haven't drunk anything in a while, I need a drink."

Alfred's eye widen, he pauses before grinning, "yeah, same."

Another moment, their eyes meet briefly, "Why don't we drink out? We'll hide well, can't have the media behind us."

There's a little desperation that Ivan does not miss, and he's not _that_ cruel, but he contemplates anyway.

The fight with Yao makes him drowsy and strengthens his need for vodka. Cloudy memories of sunflowers, far away yellow, crying and the feel of dirt on his hands make him frown. Yes, he is tired, not exhausted, but tired, and feels like the constant draw of a breath is tiring and it drives him crazy.

He feels like he can somehow remember the distant memory of dirt between nails, brick falling, falling to fast hitting bone. _Was it bone or something else?_ Red and yellow painting everything. _There was screaming to._

* * *

It's like a flash before his eyes, and then the room is no longer covered in mirrors but walls of snow and old brick, he blinks. The walls expand, he feels bitterness and rage he presses his eyes closed, and this time when he opens them he's back in the studio, Alfred by his side.

He ignores it. A nightmare probably. He blinks, relieved when he's still standing in a dreadful silence.

"Yes, that's a good idea."

* * *

Yao stomps off, off to where? The kitchen, the fake community filled with competitors, cameras, and the awaiting moving boxes of appliances. His stomach churns and the sense of heart wrenching guilt once again makes its way into his heart. It aches with more force when he remembers upset- _concerned_ violet eyes and the feel of utter shame from Arthur. Shame, and he shivers in disgust, his memory bringing him to the multiple times Arthur's been coughing. Sick, he can't be sick.

He doesn't notice someone in the kitchen until he hears a sudden foot step, his arms flail and he turns so sharp that the other stumbles before smiling.

A French man smiles gently, hands amidst curly hair. Light falling on his face gently, semi violet eyes stare kindly at him, wrinkling at the edges making his cheeks illuminate in a healthy hue.

"Francis?" Yao says slowly, " _Francis_." And like what he does to Kiku, he scrutinizing examines how Francis is, he's tall and his face has a certain defined shape that makes his western features look striking. He looks healthy and when Yao finishes his search for sickness he quietly smiles. Fiddling with his toes within his shoes, restless to leave.

All that matters is that Francis is well.

"Yao." Francis smiles and he looks happy if not the tight wedge between his eyes and his smile. There is a gap between the two and the older man frowns. He gestures for Yao to sit down and Yao complies, his face smoothing out whatever ripples of emotion he had. He places his hands together; face stern and business like, tongue gnawing inside his cheek, eyes darting at the door.  
Restless.

"How have you been?" Francis asks first, and he beams kindly and it takes Yao everything to smile back. Because something lost is lost, and they lost Francis. He tightens his smile, places his hands on the table, boney and unhealthy pale. He hopes Francis doesn't notice but Francis does, and briefly flickers away from attention before pursing his lips. They lose eye contact and Yao breathes a sigh of relief.

"I'm good," Yao says, and then he jokes around slightly because the air is too heavy with questions and inquiries and _confirmations_ of the closure that all of them never had when Francis left. "I'm always good."

"Oui? Bon, bon*," Francis replies shortly, and Yao feels the urge to ask _'why'_. Why leave when they were doing so well, why leave Arthur? _Arthur_. Why not commit to what they had, why were you so _selfish_? His smile widens when Francis opens his mouth and he nods, agreeing to something he says. This rift between them is unbearable and he edges his own smile, putting up his indestructible facade, putting up a _barrier_ for the better. They aren't partners any more, they are competition.

It would be easier if they hadn't known each other.

 _ **[Yes? Good, good]***_

"How is Arthur?"

Yao freezes. It's a sensitive topic and he smiles gently before nodding, " _well_."

Francis doesn't look satisfied so he presses on, "Oui, mais*… how is his health?"

 _ **[Yes, but…]**_

Yao freezes again and this time, his curiosity gets the better of him, and he vividly remembers coughing and sore throats, he licks his lips. Smiles, before narrowing his eyes. He tries to piece it together but fails. Thinking is becoming distracting when there are so many other matters in his head.

" _What?"_

Silence. They stare quietly into each other's eyes. It's a silent game of answers. He's not sure who's winning, he's just certain something is wrong, something is getting _implied_ and that maybe Arthur really _is_ sick.

Francis pauses for a moment before tilting his smile to the right, quirking his head to the side. "Non, non, just a question.", and then he stands up like there was no other purpose to their talk and Yao feels offended if the slight irritation on his smile says anything. The short blonde ponytail sways and he has this urge to finally ask his questions for the team. He clenches his fingers into tight balls, eyes flickering onto the floor, watching with a certain depth at their shadows and silhouettes. He watches as they fade and flicker like candle light.

"Francis."

The man turns around slight irritation on his features, _impatience_ , and Yao forces to swallow the strange kind of nervosity in his throat.

"We miss you." He really shouldn't say the second part but he does anyway, " _Arthur_ misses you."

And maybe he receives a smile, or maybe a head turn that tilts too far to the left to be comfortable, and it's these gestures that make it blindly obvious that Francis may _not_ believe him. Because then Francis smiles one of those smiles that hides things, that kind of flirtatious pucker that makes Yao gag, and remind him of everyone else's here within this facility.

Fake.

 _Why now?_

He remembers the woman who cautioned him and he finally understands. He needs to blend in with these other people who wear similar masks.

With one last glance, Francis nods before walking away, and what is left is a feeling of dissatisfaction—emptiness. Like a piece of hope deprived of a chance, Yao bows his head, his charcoal reflection staring back at him, and he notices how he may have lost some weight because his shirt seems to drag lower than before.

 _A lot_ has changed since before.

He sighs before pulling at his hair, finding the fridge and hoping that if anything, that at least his hunger would be satisfied.

* * *

"Vodka." Ivan says again, despite it being his second or maybe third shot. But it doesn't really matter because he has _high_ tolerance, he thinks. In fact he has high tolerance for many things such as his indestructible admiration for Yao, and his intervals of pain that all seem to level out as he takes another high ended swallow. He feels _distracted_ which is _good_ , and it makes him enjoy the bitter after taste even more.

He lazily glances around, women, _girls, are girls even allowed,_ are staring at him, and if it weren't for his brooding mood he would have waved or smiled. Maybe signed a few autographs or naively ask some of them to join him, but he doesn't and he glances at Alfred, who is making his way through his first glass of _weak_ American liquor.

"That's _weak_." It's the alcohol talking and the large sunglasses fall onto the tip of his nose, his coat drags most of his weight down, covering him all the way to his knees. No one really knows that he's a star or that he's hiding more than just filthy amounts of cash within his pockets, they don't care, and he's relieved.

"America isn't weak!" Alfred retorts and Ivan rolls his eyes.

" _Pathetic_."

He finishes his second or third and decides to wait out the feeling of bubbly happiness, he's riding out the feeling of relaxation and he glares at Alfred who is already beginning to hiccup. Weak.

"It's _liquor_ , Alfred." he closes his eyes briefly before opening them to Alfred whistling at a few women that share similar faces. Dusty blondes, green grey eyes, the pretty kind.

Alfred grins toothy before looking back at the Russian who seems amused. The bubbly sensation is not giving off and the sudden realization hits him.

"What?" Alfred asks before taking a huge swallow of liquor, it burns his throat but he swallows it down anyway. Opac light hits him and he grins, watching his skin burn with brighter hues.

"Are you in _love_ , Alfred?" It's his third, _fourth_ round and he swallows with no hesitation.

Alfred chokes. Wiping at his jaw with his fingers, brownish liquid dripping from his mouth, he gags.

" _What_?"

Ivan does not relent.

"Are you in lo'"

Alfred interrupts.

"Are you _drunk_?"

Hesitation. Ivan careful ponders before smiling a small smile.

"No."

"Oh my god, you're drunk. I _knew_ this was a bad idea…Damn i-"

" _Are_ you?"

Alfred pauses before shrugging, answering the inquiry anyway. He rubs the back of his neck, glances away before answering.

Hints, these are all hints and Ivan _maybe_ grins.

"I don't _think_ I am."

"Think harder." Is the response and Alfred almost cracks a smile if not the terrible daunting stare coming from clear violet eyes. The lights dance around them, he tries to think, but the liquor is getting in his head.

"I still don-"

"I like Jao." Ivan says calmly, and only then does Alfred see the genuine sadness and joy muffled in his eyes. Ivan's forth shot moves back and forth, rocking between them.

"I like Jao." repeated, and Alfred just listens.

"Why do you like _Yao_?"

" _Jao_." Ivan corrects and stupidly, Alfred just grins. He can't help it, he feels like he can giggle and dance, all the while taking the heat of the pub and flow with the laughter and the cheering. He feels drunk, which is a very bad, _bad_ thing but thoughts are getting incoherent and laughter is growing in volume.

"He is pretty.." Ivan says dizzily, and that's when Alfred realizes that there is no way they can walk back sober. He curses under his breath, pushing the glass in front of him away, the liquid slugging slowly back and forth makes him gag. His head aches slightly and he rubs his tense arms.

"Ivan, Ivan," he chides, testing just _how_ drunk Ivan really is. "Dude, get up, come on, get up."

" _No_." Ivan say's and when lifted his weight seems to double and Alfred wants to punch the Russian for being so vulnerable at a time like this. He takes a hand in his hair, flipping over strands and pulling at it with his fingertips. Should he call a cab? No, he bites his fingernail, that's too risky, and right now he can't risk any more than getting caught in bad media. He can almost see the headline _ **, [Alfred and Ivan caught sneaking out liberally to drink out?!]**_

"He...strong, da? Jao is strong."

Alfred nods, "right, right". He's not really listening.

He pulls out his mobile phone, typing in a quick text before groaning. Hoping that Yao and Arthur would spare a glance at his plea of help. Sitting down with an angry huff he pauses to look at Ivan who has his head in his hands, chin on the table of the bar.

" _Continue_." he says curtly because he can't stand the bigger man staring at him. But in all honesty, he doesn't want him to continue either way.

"Jao, stronger than you."

His smile is tight, "yeah? Sure, _sure_."

His phone vibrates and he's relieved to see Arthur's small sentence inquiring what happened.

 _ **AJ:[Something bad happened guys, need your help.]**_

 _ **AK:[What happened?]**_

He types slowly, wording it carefully only to see that Yao has responded.

 _ **YW: [What did you do this time?]**_

 _ **AJ: [Drinking out, Ivan is drunk]**_

 _ **AK: [There's a mini bar at the campus. What were you thinking?!]**_

 _ **YW: [I agree with what Arthur is saying ^]**_

He groans, holding in a giggle at the same time. Ivan is done his rambling and continues to stare quietly at him, which bugs him more than one can imagine. He quickly sends a small idea of the location, apologizes, before muttering a thanks when both of the replies are:

 _ **AK: [On my way, stay there.]**_

 _ **YW: [Coming, don't go anywhere.]**_

He slumps into his seat, slowly shaking his head of thoughts.

"Jao...Jao _insfires_ * me," Ivan is sitting straighter again, like he wasn't at all drunk and this time he seems drowsy. Like he's asleep which is a later stage of drunkenness and its effects on oneself.

 **[Yes, a BTS reference]**

"Do _I_ inspire you?" Alfred asks curiously becoming aware that finally, Ivan is truthful and vulnerable which is good thing to abuse and toy with. He smirks playfully, twirling around his cup on the table, half empty or half full but half _something_ all the same. He's not one for optimism, in fact, it makes him sick. It sells easy and the public loves it. He uses it, as a personality, a separate version of himself. It gets him good media.

"Yes." Ivan says seriously, gravely mismatching the jokingly tone Alfred used. Colours look strange on his skin and suddenly Alfred is aware that the only neon beams that look good on Ivan's skin are his own colours, _purple_ and the small hint of dying red from the harsh transitions. The club is loud, booming in sound and it's starting to disturb him and his balance.

"You don't care about what people think. Z'good, da?"

Alfred flushes, nodding eagerly before smiling between grins.

"And Arthur? Does he?"

A pause, "Da. Z'he good and precise knows what's right. Looks good, but angry most times."

The blond nods, bobbing his head excitedly. Agreeing to every single thing. He stands satisfied before noticing rushing blurs at the entryway. Yao holds the noisy bar's door open for Arthur and they scurry likes rats undetected through the lobby. But the dancing and the convulsion of motion are _too_ loud, _to_ mesmerizing in itself for anyone to notice them.

They looks strange, Yao is wearing a thick knitted scarf, hiding his neck while Arthur wears darker shades. Long jackets hiding frames suit both of them and the strange mismatched patches of colours match how awful the transitions are of the cheap party lights.

They stand out in more ways than one but tonight the bar is full and it seems that the music is even louder. It's a good thing, and he feels the vibrations of the bass rile him up. He feels upset that they came so soon.

"We...we ca—" Yao begins to say, but Arthur gently nudges him away. Looking angry and frustrated.

" _Alfred_. What were you _thinking_? We have priorities now, you cannot just go like some simple minded, uncivilized fool— _imbecile_ , and act so willfully! You bastard! Costing us so much for your own pleasure! _You'll_ be sorry when the media comes!"

Ivan watches blurry. It's all too blurry but he sees raven black hair so he attempts to stand straighter. Gold eyes meet him and the wave of euphoric confusion clouds his mind. Jao, _Yao_ , there's _two_ of them?

There is a speaking noise but he doesn't really hear the words, he just knows that when the Asian man tries to hurl him on his shoulder, he attempts to shake him off. Because this isn't _Jao_ , and the idea of betraying his own morals scares him.

" _No_." He says using more force then he needs because he sees some kind of familiar pain in the other's eyes.

It takes a while but after there is no longer any noise and he groggily agrees to stand up with Arthur because Arthur is some kind of constant. Jao, _Yao_ , _whoever_ , it's too complicated and it's starting to make him feel sick. He takes a swing at his almost empty glass, swallowing the last drops of vodka when Arthur swings a slim shoulder over his own, and the black haired man watches with a small frown. It's laughable and finally Ivan feels like laughing and just _smiling_ so he cracks a small lip pressed smile which makes the other flush in some kind of seething impatient anger.

"C'mon Yao. Let's head back."

Yao nods, staring deeply into Ivan's lidded eyes. He once drank with Ivan, and he knows Ivan can handle multiple drinks, but even a man his size has a limit. He silently counts the bottles rimmed with transparent drops, _four_ , even that's pushing it for the Russian. He sends a half glare at Ivan, tilting his head to match the crooked angle of Ivan's own. He silently hopes that Ivan will recover from the drunkenness soon. The clarity in the violet eyes sway, concentration is a miss.

"Yeah, let's go- aru…"

Alfred follows behind him, leaving behind a couple ten bills, although the green paper looks restless. He has a small growing headache and the feeling of dancing and happiness is wasting away much to his displeasure, but as it fades he welcomes the seriousness and the logic of his brain trying to rework its circuits.

He jogs to Yao who stands by the door, Arthur seemingly effortlessly carrying a limping Ivan. No one notices them, no one cares, which is concerning and amazing all at once. He stands silently for a moment, just watching opac light blend with neons, watching primary's fade into shades, it is magical he thinks, briefly, but it's probably the foreshadowing of a sore migraine.

"I'm sorry." He says when he snaps out of the lull, and he means it, truly. He needs to start thinking things through but at times he doesn't know how. Like everything is happening to quickly for him to understand. He exits the bar, glancing back at the bright lights and the heavy smell of perfume and alcohol. He likes this kind of atmosphere but Arthur is right. He has face to keep, he has a reputation. He does not have a choice, there can be no mistakes.

He needs to think more before he does things. He closes his eyes and shuts the door. He can't continue on like this. He needs to change.

"Is Ivan okay?" Yao asks when he joins his side, watching Arthur effortlessly drag the other.

"Be more careful." Yao reprimands after, going soft for no apparent reason. Alfred needs to look down to meet the elder's eyes, and he sees concern somewhere clouded in amber. It reminds him of what Ivan said, of the pills of the constant drain of energy.

"Ivan cares for you a lot." he says bluntly and he laughs nervously. "He cares a lot, a lot."

He's not good at this. He flushes, ears turning pink and he pushes his glasses up. He knows what Ivan means, _understands_ with little difficulty. Yao _is_ strong; Yao is more than what he seems. But he is also weak and frail and breaks easily like China and glass. He pauses, staring at Yao who stares at the floor; the sun looks good on him because it makes his skin less sickeningly pale, less like a painting on a bleached canvas, more vivid and colourful. He opens his mouth, "He really, really, like, a lot, a lot, _a lot_ cares about you."

He admires Yao. It's simple, and he holds a breath, enjoys walking slowly and embraces the warmth of the evening sun.

"He cares about you to." Yao says dryly, eyes downcast. Looking at the flying pebbles he's starting to kick with more energy. The sun is slowly setting and he feels the guilt again. He wants to tell Alfred the truth, because Alfred is in all ways easy to talk to. _Liar_ , he thinks when he looks back up to see Alfred staring at the sun. The glow making his skin look warmer than it already is. He needs time. Still needs time. It's _complicated_ and he knows this, they know this. Does Kiku know that? Does he care?

The world spins around him, Alfred is speaking and he is laughing, _smiling_ like it's alright. A rapid breath, his heart beats to fast; it is beating _way_ to fast.

 _ **Liar.**_

 _No._

 _ **Accomplice.**_

 _No._

 _ **Worse than Kiku.**_

 _What can he say to that?_

The ground shifts back, his vision clouded momentarily stops and then he hears what Alfred is saying. Something about love and family but he misses it completely. He's too busy calming his frantic heart. He doesn't understand what happened.

"Alfred?"

The American man looks down, questioning with a grin. Alfred is so much more than what the public displays.

"Do you trust me?"

There is no heartbeat, there is no pause, and there is no hesitation.

Yao's heart breaks.

"Yes." Alfred grins, "of course, dude!"

And the sun looks _good_ on Alfred, unlike Yao because he feels like he's burning under the spotlight. Feels afraid and vulnerable for the first time in such a long time, while Alfred walks with confidence and strides with a form of elegance that makes Yao smile sadly. Alfred is amazing, phenomenal is all ways, he admires Alfred. Envies him.

They are too good for him, to good, to kind. And what is he? He wants to scream and tell them that he's a fraud. That they shouldn't trust him, and he feels like their faces are becoming blurs with crosses on them. Because why is he talking to people with such genuine kindness? How is he so selfish that he can destroy their harmony? Why has he become like _this_?

Alfred laughs about something and he smiles back.

They are all so amazing.

The realization doesn't hit him as surprising and he looks at the ground for the remainder of the walk.

He is utter scum.

—-

There is a letter written when they get back. Neat, clean, folded carefully with precision and pressed gently. The care and detail makes them uneasy, even Ivan's stare seems to clear.

 _We are terribly sorry to inform you that the date for the first challenge will be changed to tomorrow. Prepare to head to the main lobby tomorrow for performances. Best of luck, and sorry for the inconvenience._

 _Roma Antiqua_

 _Owner_

* * *

 _ **Authors note**_

Thank you so much for reading this chapter! Yes, I am loyal to all of my stories, and despite a lack of time will always come to update them!

So it's clear Arthur's sick of some sort, and the feud between Yao and Ivan draw a bigger rift in all four of them. But what about Francis and his knowledge on the topic concerning Arthur? Or Alfred's part in the growing mystery and relationships within the ALLIES? And now we have another problem, Ivan's strange remembrance of a dark dream, or is it reality?

But lastly, has anyone _truly_ guessed the ultimate plot between Yao and Kiku? I suppose not, the biggest evidence will be in the next chapter!

Next chapter you see everyone competing for the label of first place!

* * *

You responded! Ahaha, yes the confrontation was probably the best part of the chapter! Aha...my new story MEMO is dark, the writing style is quite different, almost disturbing. _Hopefully_ , you will enjoy that new exploration of writing styles? Will the AXIS cheat? Maybe, maybe not, next chapter you will see! As for Ivan's possessiveness, yes, I suppose it's due to mere desperation, haha. Yes, you missed quite a bit, but I am so glad that you have come back, and hopefully well?

Your reviews are honestly a huge part in the completion of my chapters, I never want to continue until I get a review (mostly yours) that in detail gives me good feedback, so I know what to change and what not to. I'm glad you enjoy the pairing of Ivan and Yao! It is by far my favorite; however, I won't let that shun the others. Once again, I want to thank you because your reviews make me smile, make me feel inspired a new to try my best and expand on my chapters. In fact, sometimes when you guess my plots I add factors because your ideas and assumptions give me more ideas, they are honestly THAT good!

Be well! Happy New Year! I'll wait for your next review!~


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